When You're Gone, Can I Stay?
by planet p
Summary: AU; Margaret recruits a new friend for her son's cause. Warning: non-consensual sex and sexual abuse of a minor! Margaret/Charles, Emily/Lyle
1. Chapter 1

**When You're Gone, Can I Stay?** by planet p

**Disclaimer** I don't own _the Pretender_ or any of its characters.

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He didn't know why it was her he should pick up on most strongly, why it hadn't been one of the younger ones, one of her children, but that was just the way it worked out.

At first, there wasn't even any pain, just a sense of... of the excitement of growing up, learning new things. She'd always liked school.

But that wasn't really where it had all started. In reality, it hadn't started with her at all. It had really all started with Paul and Francine, who'd been the same age. It was the height of summer, 1945. An eventful year, for a lot of reasons. Margaret had been seven. Her older sister, Francine, had just turned thirteen. In those days, it had still been Paul and Francine's story.

Francine had always been a happy child; the light and life of her family. Much to her chagrin, soon after her twelfth birthday, things had started to change for her. Physically. Unknowingly, her body had begun down the road to womanhood, begun to change, metamorphose, until, at the age of thirteen, she really didn't look it anymore. She could have passed for fifteen, easily, her girlfriends always told her, with such easy excitement in their eyes. They were thinking, of course, of boys.

That summer, Francine got a bicycle for her birthday, and fell in love with it at once. With the feeling of freedom, of exhilaration when she rode fast, cutting through the air like the feather of some great, soaring eagle, she liked to imagine, in her mind. Up in the air that high, where birds had gone long before warplanes, it was kind of hard to breathe, but she loved it, no less. It was pure freedom.

She'd smiled at lot, that year, her vibrant red hair catching the sunlight so that it looked much more like a shimmering wave of fire, rather than hair. To look at, she was something exotic, something mysterious, a splendid young goddess who'd fell to earth from the heavens. Even to her younger sister, Maggie, she was breathtaking.

It wasn't so hard to believe, then, that Paul, one of the neighbourhood boys, should one day chance to catch a glimpse of her in that very same light, and fall in love with her.

Perhaps love wasn't quite it, though. He was sure he wasn't in love with her, it was just her body that excited him. And had it ever!

That flame-red hair, flushed red cheeks and deep rosy lips, like fresh, softly scented rosebuds, unfurling for the first time, the curve of her thighs and her strong, vital calves; that perfectly proportioned dip at the bottom of her back. And that butt! Mounted atop her bike, he truly believed her to be a goddess in all her splendid, earth-shattering glory!

She was simply awe-inspiring. From his vantage point across the street, her power radiated out from her like waves, washing over him.

He wasn't in love, but he was clearly in something! And he was sinking further and further down, by the second, drowning with no water, breathing, but not drawing breath.

That moment, Maggie would have reflected, if she'd known of it, had probably been the moment that had started it all. A moment in which Francine, riding her bike down the street, had slowed and decided to stop in front of a friend's house for a chat, the two girls laughing happily together, completely unsuspecting of the future that awaited them; a future that was just a hair's breadth around the corner.

A month later, Francine was dead; had been struck by a car whilst out riding her bike and left for dead. The war had ended, her father had come home, but she would never see him again. He, himself, wouldn't have the chance to see her smile, to see her as she was in life, the young lady that she'd become. He'd only see her lifeless body, and some many nights, he'd curse himself for insisting her mother get her that bicycle, for ever leaving his family at all. Later that year, he'd take Francine's bicycle out of hiding in the shed, where it had been stowed after her death, and douse it in gasoline and set it alight.

Margaret, who, after Francine's death had been denied any chance of learning to ride, had watched him from the backdoor, her heart pounding strangely, painfully, but bluntly, and she'd felt a horrible, horrible loss. It was winter, now, well into the chilly season, but the warmth from the fire hadn't touched her at all. It's strange fire's glow had touched her cheeks, but it was only light, and the world was full of light. It was by the light that people knew the dark.

Rugged up in a winter coat, Maggie told herself that Francine would be so furious, dark with fury, to see her birthday present go to waste like that, to see it burn, and all of that awful, choking smoke, but really, Margaret didn't know what Francine would think, or what she'd feel. She didn't think she'd feel anything. She was dead, after all. Maggie had been to the funeral herself; said her last farewell to a broken, empty body that hadn't even been her sister anymore; how stupid that had been, how stupid she'd thought it, deep down. Her sister was gone! She'd gone and no-one had even noticed.

Watching that fire burn, all Maggie had felt, in truth, was her own fury. Darn it, she'd been looking forward to riding that bike! In the pit of her stomach, she'd had a feeling that nothing would be quite normal ever again, that though she was a child, had been a child, up 'til that point, that from that split second on, as the flames danced higher in her father's eyes, lighting up the tears that poured down his face, turning to ice on his skin, she would no longer be. Her childhood had been robbed of her, with one failed breath. The simple truth was, it was just to dangerous being a child.

Look what had happened to Francine.

.

It was a long time after that that Margaret and Paul were really introduced, that the pair really got to know each other. Margaret was eleven, and it was 1949. She'd started high school, that year, and Paul was in his last year. Tall, handsome, and seventeen; all he had to do was walk by, and all the girls swooned. Wherever he went, he was noticed. No-one noticed Margaret. She kept her hair cut short and refrained from talking in a loud voice, practically ever. It wasn't that she'd lost her older sister, her role model and good friend. It was a loss of another kind that she was grieving; the loss of her right to be a child, her right to love and rely on her parents, because her parents were very much still in mourning for their darling, departed Francine.

Most days, they never even saw Margaret.

But Paul had.

.

Paul was an older sibling, too, the way Francine had been to Maggie. He had a brother three years younger, whom he called Charlie, but whose name was really Charles. Charles was thirteen, and Paul was just starting to find him bearable, useful, even. Their interests were starting to come into alignment. It was surely the beginning of a great friendship... if Charlie didn't act out too much, and did as he was told.

The first time he'd noticed that she'd existed, Margaret had been some ratty-haired, snot-nosed, scowl-faced kid at beautiful, dear, dead Francine's funeral. A bit of a lump, in that little kid sort of way, but not really.

Four years later, and she was something else entirely. Though she tried to make out it wasn't so, Paul saw through all of that, to the real her; to her real beauty. When she got started, she'd really be something to rival old Francine all right! She'd be a vision, herself.

When he'd learnt that they were going to the same school, he'd had no qualms whatsoever with following her, with taking just that extra bit of notice of her, though she didn't seem to notice him, at all. That... slightly ticked him off. Every other girl was left speechless, drooling over him, and the one girl he thought it would be kind of cool to notice him, wouldn't have noticed a tree if it had suddenly sprung up in front of her and she'd walked headlong into it.

She was still that same lump she'd been four years ago, but this time, in soul, not in body.

Watching her, he'd been reminded a lot of Francine, but, as time wore on, she'd finally broke free to become her own person, and he'd started to think about Francine less and less. Francine was dead, gone. It was Margaret he really wanted; it was Margaret would got that fire started, when he was in need of some warmth; Margaret whom he dreamed about, when he really ought not have been dreaming at all.

Margaret, he was determined to have. This one wouldn't slip through the net the way her dear old sister had. There was no way in Hell!

He had a plan, and he was willing to carry it out. Of course, he wouldn't be able to do it alone. He'd need to enlist some help.

.

The great thing about Charlie was that he didn't ask questions, and when he said he'd be there, he damn well fronted up and stuck it out, no matter what. Which was a real advantage, Paul reflected, surveying the girl writhing on the floor at his feet, pinned down by both arms, blindfolded and gagged with a rag in her mouth.

Turning his glance to his younger brother, for a second, Paul was pleased, if not slightly disturbed, to see Charlie's expression quite blank. The kid was a real freak, for sure! But well helpful enough.

On the floor, Margaret continued to wriggle around in an obviously quite useless attempt at escape - Charlie wasn't the only one holding her down - and he a smile touched his lips. He liked feisty.

Though he'd been disappointed by her failure to grasp even simple facts and notions. After all, she'd all too easily fallen into his trap when he'd lured her into the gym with the excuse that he'd heard someone crying but had been sorta too freaked out to go make sure no-one was seriously hurt. Well, there weren't many people around. School was out for the day and most, if not all the other students, had hit the exits like rats escaping from rising water. Even the teachers, it seemed, had done their disappearing acts.

Which all suited Paul perfectly fine.

Still, he wasn't too cut up about the girl's idiocy; it had landed him his golden opportunity, after all.

Falling into a crouch beside the two boys and the one struggling girl on the floor, Paul motioned for the boys to turn her over. He didn't want her to kick him whilst he did the deed, not did he really want to see her silly, scowling mouth.

It would have been that much more entertaining without the gag, he thought to himself, for a second, but it really wasn't worth the risk. It would just have to stay.

He suppressed a sigh and got to it, his hands going to his pants.

.

After their first little intimacy, albeit, having had company, Paul found that he actually didn't mind Margaret's scowling face any longer. In fact, he sometimes found himself wondering how much of her dark mood was his doing, and he felt great, really powerful.

She never said anything, of course, because who'd believe her. And, more than that, he guessed that she'd actually enjoyed it, just a bit. It sure impressed him, to think so; to think he could do that to a girl and, even though it was his first time with someone else, still manage to do something right. It made him hungry for the next time. One moment, he'd be perfectly fine, the next she'd pop up in his thoughts and his mouth would go dry and he'd go hard and he'd have to shove down the urge to just leave whatever he was doing, grab her, and lay his claim to her, over and over again.

When, a week later, he saw her pass by him in that stalking walk of hers - fuck, it was laughable, the way she still couldn't bring herself to _notice_ him! - and thought he couldn't possibly hold it in any longer, he held his breath and counted to a hundred silently, willing something to happen, a moment to come up when they could be alone.

He was ready to go this one alone, he decided. Without backup. He needed to do it himself. He had a feeling it would be that much more rewarding!

When the hall finally cleared, he started off after her.

.

Charles frowned in disconcertion at the girl standing across the tiny room from him, little more than a cupboard for cleaning things, really, and tried his best to sound like he gave a damn when she spoke. She still didn't know he'd been in on his older brother's little scheme, he supposed, by the way she was talking, but he just wanted her to shut up.

After a while, he'd had enough of her running her mouth, and shot up a hand, slapping her across the face with a loud _Smack!_

She fell silent right away, wonder of wonders, but the look in her eye said she still didn't get it. She thought he was angry at her for saying something like that about his older brother, when he really just wanted to her to shut up and listen to him.

Grabbing a handful of her hair close to her scalp - it was really too short - he got to see that look in her eyes disappear, up close; got to see it replace itself with fear and, Lord, anger.

That impressed him a bit.

For a split second, he really though she might retaliate. With mounting anticipation, he ordered her, in a low voice, "Take your top off. Unbutton your shirt!"

The excitement of a scuffle was short-lived - she didn't fight back - and her hands went to her sweater, shakily, rousing a new kind of excitement in him.

If his brother could do it, why couldn't he!

Besides, his brother had to be plain _loco_ to pass up some of the girls he'd passed up for this scrap of a mangy thing. He, on the other hand, was too young for girls like that to even take notice of him. He deserved this. He'd bloody well earned it, too. After what Paul had implicated him in, he wasn't just some dumb kid anymore! He wanted action of his own.

It wasn't as though he wasn't already in deep doo-doo for aiding and abetting his older brother's crazy plan. He'd might as well enjoy it while it lasted, he thought.

Drawing her sweater up over her head, the material rustling and crackling, almost like a long, heavy sigh, the girl let it fall to the floor, and Charles swallowed a snappy retort that she hurry up. Rushing it wasn't going to make it better.

As she fumbled with the buttons, he made sure to savour every flash of pale, warm flesh, every little, slowly-revealing glimpse. She really did have great skin; so soft, touchable. In fact, he wanted to reach out that second and run his hand all over it, feel its heat beneath his fingers, its life!

He refrained.

Boy, oh boy! He was getting hot and bothered just watching her get her top off. Underneath, she wasn't wearing a single thing, not a bra or singlet, just more of that sweet skin.

When she'd discarded of her blouse, on a pile on top of her sweater, on the floor, Charles gave her another instruction. "Touch them. I want to hear you sigh with pleasure. Go on!"

Biting back something she'd been about to say, the girl - Charles made a note to find out her name - complied, cupping her small, soft breasts in her hands and sliding her hands over one another to momentarily share the same space between her breasts, then bringing them back down, out of that space, to caress the bottom of those heavy, round mounds.

Despite what he'd asked of her, the only sound was that of skin on skin contact, and Charles, absorbed in watching her, quite forgot what he'd asked of her not a handful of moments ago.

He licked his bottom lip, his own hand going to his pants, reaching beneath the waist band.

A heavy moan escaped the back of his throat, his eyes lolling in his head, for a moment or two.

Though he couldn't be bothered to take notice, the girl's eyes never left his. She seemed determined to take in every little flicker of something in his eyes, every little nuance of emotion. It was more than she'd been offered the last time.

He gripped himself with more pressure, rubbing harder, faster, really working up a steam inside.

The girl only stared, her eyes wide, one hand softly tracing circles around a marshmallowy pink nipple with a small thumb, the other caressing her small, pale belly as though in a comforting gesture.

Gasping, Charles advanced on her suddenly, shoving her back against the wall with an ungracious thud. Her hand slipped from her tiny breast, but the one at her belly remained. Her eyes locked unwaveringly, tearlessly, to his. "Turn around," he snapped.

She didn't move.

"'Turn around,' I said!"

In response, she merely parted her legs further, adjusting the space between her shoes.

He glared at her, a mixture of disgust and anger colouring his face, and was thoroughly taken off guard when she reached her wee mitt over and placed it on the top of his leg, curling her little fingers tighter around his thigh, and gently applied a little pull.

His anger washed away in the flood of pure pleasure that her hand on his leg there sent through him, and he stepped into her, closer, their body heat mingling, finally, spurning him on.

He slipped a leg between hers, and got up close to her, not a second later, finding her small, surprisingly warm and steady hands, pulling his shirt free of his pants.

Holy cow, his heart was beating like mad! He'd never been so close to a girl before. Not like this! It was exhilarating and terrifying, all at once.

He pressed himself against her, his hands finding and gripping her buttocks.

He moaned, his head tipping back, though he didn't mean for it to, so her breath, so close and so warm, tickled his Adam's apple, most pleasingly, sending little shivers down his spine.

But that was just the start, it didn't even _touch_ what came next, when she bent closer and pressed her soft, lusciously warm, wet mouth to his throat, initiating whole shockwaves of ecstasy that enveloped him.

He was pretty sure shit like this wasn't meant to happen until you were at least, shit, what, fifteen, but he sure wasn't complaining. He wasn't complaining at all. Up until the moment the door flew open, he was actually feeling damn good about himself!

Then the room got that bit bigger, the hall suddenly blinking into view, and a cold draft came, chilling him a bit and killing their connection instantly. And, if that hadn't been enough to do it, the sight of Paul standing in the doorway with a dangerously murderous glint in his eye ought to have done the trick.

Charles wanted to crawl away and hide, never come out again.

Paul, ever the older brother, snapped the door shut efficiently and sighed. "You might as well finish it," he said, at last. And that was that.

He stayed to play voyeur, which was only fair enough, really, and when Charlie finally got it out and pushed his hands up the built-like-a-blade-of-grass girl's skirt, dragging down her underwear, he offered an amused chuckle which really didn't help, but just left Charles with the strong urge to bash him over the back of the head with something hard and heavy and shut him up.

The girl was silent, when he entered her, her teeth gritted, fingers curled into palms to make fists, and he really wished Paul would fuck off, really wished they were both older.

And when, ready to come, he felt like he would burst, like he had to get out, no matter what he did, Paul stepped in and rested a hand flat on his back, stopping him from going anywhere.

Paul really was an asshole, and, unfortunately, that was the moment he realised he was well on his way to following in his footsteps. It was too bad really it was such a rush, because he might have tried to correct himself, if it hadn't been; if it had been just a fraction less fucking _awesome_.

.

It was fairly much after that that Paul figured he'd been outdone and started looking around for something new; the whole business with the dead girl and her sister put behind him, by now - what a hug relief - and landed himself a good-looking little number by the name of Beth-Ann.

Which comfortably left Charles the whip girl all to himself.

Over the years, he grew quite close to her, and her to him. He actually thought he might care for her, which wasn't as shocking as he'd imagined it, at first, to be.

Sure, sometimes he still did some stupid stuff, like the time, for her sixteenth birthday, he took her out alone for a special birthday picnic and got annoyed when she'd refused to play along with one of his little games - she was alright with sex, but she didn't like drunken idiots playing funny with wine bottles - and had stepped on her leg, actually stomped on it, hard enough that it broke.

He actually hadn't enjoyed the howl she'd let out, then tried to stifle with her hand as though she thought it might encourage him. The noise had pretty well sobered him up on the spot and he'd wanted to kick himself or crack himself over the head with the empty wine bottle lying on the ground beside the picnic blanket.

He'd gotten her into the car and driven her back to town, to some help, and she'd been kind enough to lie and say she'd fallen, though, given the injury, he was pretty sure nobody could mistake it for that caused by a fall.

After that, he gave up underage drinking, with an idea not to start again when he turned 21.

The break, though it healed in time, left her with somewhat of a limp, and though she tried her utmost best, she gave up competing in any of the school sports events, and she stopped running. Her limp improved, until it was barely even noticeable, except to someone who was looking for it, and when she turned eighteen, in the interest of doing the right thing, he asked her to marry him. Outwardly, she was still as beautiful as ever. Beautiful enough to make a lot of men jealous and envious as heck that a young lout like he was had ended up with such a pretty young woman.

She said "no", of course, the first time he asked, and he didn't even chuck a fit over it. She hadn't said "never" so he decided, as long as he was still in for the running, that was fair enough.

It was fairly well two years later, when she discovered that she was pregnant, that she agreed to marriage. For the kid's sake. And, perhaps, for her parents' sakes. His parents didn't like her; they'd stopped asking what the Hell he was doing with her and fallen into a pattern of pretending she didn't exist. He'd wanted to go off at them over it enough times, but each time he'd resisted. He'd joined the Air Force, when he'd been old enough, with the aim of improving himself as a person, and he wasn't about to let his parents (or his temper) fuck it up for him. He'd do the right thing by his girl if it killed him! He wasn't some freaky little kid anymore, and he sure as shit wasn't Paul Goddamn shadow! He was his own man, and, soon, he'd be a father, too.

And he was damned if he wouldn't make a damn fine husband and father!


	2. Chapter 2

She wasn't an Empath, but the woman with her was. Which explained some things, and opened up yet more questions.

When he was finally able to open his eyes, she was smiling. She seemed to find it amusing, really. "Got your attention, I see. Drugs. Aren't they just wonderful tools! I guess you're wondering why I'm doing all this; why go to all the trouble! Maybe you're thinking, _She's not an Empath._ Wondering why it was me, and not one of them." Here, she glanced around the room, indicating her children: Jarod, Emily, and Gemini. Ethan wasn't around, so he must of been with Charles, because he wasn't around either.

"I just thought I'd give you a special little something, from me to you," Margaret went on, "just to say 'hi', 'welcome'." Her gaze strayed to the unfamiliar woman, the Empath. "This is de Berg. She's an Empath, as I'm sure you'd already figured out. She'll be helping me today."

Taking in his expression, she sighed, disappointment evident in her voice. "I really thought you would have been quite pleased with your little present, to be honest. Of course, it's not at all true, but it was really something, wasn't it? Right up your alley! You hate women, after all. I was expecting a little more enthusiasm, from your expression. But I guess that's the drugs. Fantastic, aren't they! A little word of advice, before we go any further: don't bother trying to block us, that's the beauty of these little babies. You can't. Great, aren't they? I just love them!" She nodded.

"Oh, right, you must be wondering. I'll fill you in on a little secret, then. De Berg, she's a specialist in Empathic sharing. And when I say _specialist_, I mean really _very_ good at it. Of T-Corp extraction. You know they're always quality!"

"Mom," Emily interrupted, doing her best not to look overly disturbed by her mother's words, though she obviously was. "He doesn't hate women, he just doesn't consider them. At all. Until they're of use to him, they're nothing. They exist, but they don't mean anything; their lives don't mean anything. It's not about them. Don't you get it? He doesn't choose them for them, he chooses them because they're the ones _he_ likes; the ones he wants. They're like toys. They have no meaning until somebody picks them up and plays with them. They don't mean anything to him, 'til then. He doesn't hate women, he probably quite likes them. But only when he chooses to. Only when they can be of use to him. If he's not in the mood, he couldn't care less. If they get in his way, and they're not on his Favourites list, they don't mean anything; they're just expendable. He can... get rid of them, and they don't even mean anything. They don't _do_ anything. Basically, they're not worth shit.

"I guess that's how he felt, growing up. He could try and try and no matter what he did, he still didn't mean anything to his parents. The only time he meant anything was when he was getting mistreated; that was the only time he really existed for them. At other times, they just neglected him. Neglect isn't a joking matter. It's very serious. And it can seriously damage a person's ability to relate to others. It can really, really fuck them up in the head.

"Anyway, that's my theory." She blinked a couple of times, shook her head. "Monologue over, could you... get to the point. I'm kinda hungry."

Margaret laughed. Apparently, Emily was hungry a lot; and apparently, she used it as an excuse quite a lot, too. What was new?

Making an effort not to throw up, Lyle tried to think what "the point" was, exactly. Maybe it was just punishment, for killing Kyle. He supposed that made sense. He'd deserved that. Hopefully she'd give it up now, and get down to explaining why Jarod had brought him here, and why she was the one doing all the talking. What did she want?

"You're looking a little off-colour, dear," Margaret said now, in a falsely concerned tone. "Who knows, I might have just the thing to cheer you up! Give it a spin, eh?"

"I'd rather not," he told her, quite pleased that he hadn't slurred more. Whatever she'd given him, it really wasn't doing him any favours. His vision wasn't the best, either. And his head was murdering him, among other things.

"No? Oh, well, isn't that a shame. I hope this means I've made my point, and we can talk like proper human beings. And you'll take me seriously, hmm?"

With that sickly sweet tone and the cutesy glint in her eye. Not likely, he thought. He might throw up, though. He glanced at Jarod. "Guess she misses your dad, huh?"

Jarod looked at Margaret. It was her game; it was out of his hands. Which was just as well. He wouldn't have been mucking around with some Empath. He'd have been happier with a more hands-on approach.

"Very funny," Margaret replied, in place of her son. "Shut it! You don't open your stupid, little mouth unless I say it's okay. Understand?"

"I don't like this game," he said, deliberately avoiding answering her question. "Can we play Monopoly, instead?"

Emily made a face. Why was he pissing her mom off? Didn't he get it? If he didn't co-operate, she wouldn't co-operate either. And, frankly, Emily was a bit creeped out. Okay, a lot creeped out! Didn't he think he at least owed her that much, not to traumatize her any further!

He rolled his eyes, annoyed. He felt like shit. Emily wasn't the only one creeped out. Why couldn't she hurry up and spit out what it was she wanted from him, already! "Name it, lady! What do you want?"

"Right of this moment, not a lot," she said. "Actually, there is one thing. But you needn't worry, it won't hurt. All I want from you, my dear, is your co-operation. Easy as A B C."

He laughed, and started coughing. A bad idea, then. "I get it. Gotcha. Say no more. You want _me_ to spy on the Centre, for _you_! Damn, I'm good!" He smiled. "Never gonna happen, Maggie. You see, I value my life. By all means, chuck a lolly! See, if _you_ don't kill me, and I agree - 'Your wish is my command, my lady' - they're only going to do it for you. They don't... like... traitors! Or spies! Exhibit A: Catherine! Dead chick!"

He scowled, shooting her an angry glare. "I do _not_ want to die like _her_! As far as I'm concerned, the woman was never my mother. I'm nothing like her, and I never _will be_! I'm sorry- Shit, you know what, I'm not fuckin' sorry! The answer is _no_! Go ahead! Shoot me! I'd rather _die_!"

Margaret sighed, sounding tired. "You say that now," she replied, glancing across to her accomplice. "De Berg, if you'll please."

"Certainly," the Empath responded compliantly, striding forward neatly to place her hand on his forehead.

The last thing he thought, before his thoughts morphed into something no longer his own, was that there had to be a away, if not to block de Berg, then to backtrack along the connection she'd made between the two of them and cut the cord. There had to be a way!

.

Emily sighed, crossing her arms, and walked to the couch, taking a seat depressingly. Well, at least they'd given him some time to process whatever it was they'd shown him that last time. If they didn't overdo it, and allowed him to process it all properly, he probably wouldn't sustain any negative feedback. She had a feeling, however, that de Berg had a few hangups of her own; involving men.

She hoped the woman was as professional as her mom had made out; they really needed this, they didn't need it fucking up on them. They needed someone on their side, in that place; and someone who actually had a bit of clout and could take steps when they needed to be taken.

What they didn't need, on the other hand, was to kill someone. Lyle wouldn't be of any use to them dead.

In honesty, she didn't know why Jarod and Margaret had decided it should be Lyle. She'd been thinking maybe that tech guy, Broots. But, she supposed, it couldn't be him. He was probably a pretty decent guy, in most other regards. He'd probably have been quite happy to help Jarod out, if it hadn't been his job not to. Too obvious. And Sydney was way too obvious, not to mention, he wasn't as young as he used to be and Jarod really wouldn't want him getting into hot water on his account. Which also ruled out Miss Parker. Lyle, Jarod couldn't really give a shit about.

Not to mention, she thought darkly, he had a bit of a track record with Jarod. On that indicated he really sort of hated him. He was perfect, in other words. Who would suspect him?

Emily still didn't like the idea. She didn't even grant it that it was probably the most appropriate avenue they had, and that, realistically, it was actually quite a good idea, if they could make it work. She wanted to be ill, just thinking about it. _She_ didn't want _anything_ to do with that maniac! Nothing! And if her mother and older brother's plan worked out, it would mean having something to do with the freak. Certainly an entertaining prospect, she thought sourly, with a pang of anger and disgust.

It wasn't even as though they could just flick a switch in the lunatic's head and at the very least, get him to stop killing people! They'd just have to accept that that was what he was like - totally fucked in the mind. She didn't like that idea. She didn't like the idea of having any association with someone like that! Just thinking about it already felt too much like it would be her bearing part of the responsibility, part of the blame, for his lunatic actions. Because they wanted the benefits, but didn't give two hoots to the consequences outside of their own gain!

That was a dirty way to behave. It made her feel like a fucking criminal, and she wasn't a bloody criminal! She resented the whole idea.

Still, she hadn't put a stop to it, either. She hadn't been game enough to. She supposed that meant, in a small way, she was as bad as any of them, as bad as the company who'd stolen her brothers from their family in the middle of the night and exploited them for none other than their own greedy benefits, no matter that it meant forfeiting the boys' humanity, their Goddamn sanity, even.

Man, she felt like a sick freak.

_You've a right to fight back_, she admonished herself. _You should fight back, for all those who can't. That's all it is: fighting back!_

It was a pity it had to feel so wrong.

She got to her feet, abruptly, and walked over to her older brother, leaning in to speak privately. "It won't hurt Miss Parker, will it, if something happens to him?"

Jarod frowned, and shook his head. "No. She'll be fine. It hasn't happened before; I don't see any reason that it should now, and there've been plenty of opportunities for their connection to make itself known. I just don't think there is one. Beyond Lyle's sick, twisted imagination."

"But they are... related. And they're twins. They both have the-"

"They don't share the same expression, Em. She's a Pretender with the Inner Sense. He's an Empath and partially a Reaper. They're nothing alike. Nothing'll happen. She'll be fine."

"Are you sure?" Emily asked, not so convinced.

"Yeah," Jarod replied. "Absolutely sure."

She sighed. "I hope so," she said.

Jarod frowned. "Don't sweat it, Em. Nothing bad'll happen to Parker. And if you're worried for that sorry excuse for a human being, don't be. He's done nothing to deserve anything from you!"

"It's not that," she said, sighing again. She turned to glance at Mo and walked back to the couch, sitting down again. She really hoped Jarod was right.

Suppressing a sigh, she did her best to relax and sit back against the back of the couch, and closed her eyes. Now that she thought about it, she'd meant to ask what a Reaper was - she'd heard the word before - but she supposed she could always ask later on.

Resisting the urge to sigh again, she wondered what life would have been like if the Centre had never got involved in theirs. She didn't even know if her parents had siblings, let alone the names of their parents, the town (or towns) they'd grown up in, nothing. If they'd never known about the Centre, would she had known her grandparents? Would she have had an uncle or aunty? Cousins, even? Friends? A family of her own?

She opened her eyes, staring up at the bare concrete ceiling. Thinking about it just made her sad, made her miss it. She decided to get up and go have a cup of coffee, instead. She might've spent some time thinking about Miss Parker, about when Jarod and she were going to finally admit their true feelings for one another and get together - she would have liked to have been an aunt - but the idea seemed like such a distant one, such a complicated one, that she gave it a miss. Besides, Jarod really sucked at admitting his true feelings. About as much as she'd always been told Miss Parker sucked at it, she thought.

Trudging up the stairs, she finally allowed herself to sigh. Another thing that really sucked was that the Centre, for all she knew, was just the tip of the iceberg. If there were other companies operating by exploiting people like her brothers, who was to say they'd ever be safe? _That_ massively sucked.

She didn't know how Jarod got up in the morning. Frankly, she was finding it harder and harder. Even though, in theory, she found the very idea of giving up an affront and repulsive, she just couldn't make herself motivated anymore the way she had been able to even just a couple of months ago, and that was nothing compared to her willpower a couple of _years_ ago.

She felt like she was already dead, a walking zombie. She really did need that coffee, she decided. Even if it did shit all, she could at least still pretend it should, pretend she felt better, energised again. Who knew? Maybe it would make all the difference. Everyone always said it was all in the mind; you could do anything you could set your mind to.

That was all it was, wasn't it? A shift of mind-set. That was what she needed!

_Who are you kidding?_ she asked herself, her inner voice bristling with anxiety and irritation. _It's more than just a mind-set, Emily. It's the whole Goddamn thing! It's the environment! There's no such thing as endogenous, it's _always_ reactionary! Maybe people just expect you to forge on ahead single-mindedly in your task, but sometimes you just can't help noticing things. Sometimes, it's the right thing to do! Just because other people who live in their own little world can't get that through their heads, doesn't mean you have to try so hard to emulate them. You're a person, you're real, you care. Just... don't forget that first point. You're a person, too. You have to stop and think about your capabilities and your limitations, especially the limitations of your situation. Don't forget you matter, too. Don't _you_ forget it, even if everyone else can and _do_! Remember, you can't help anyone else if you can't, first, help yourself. You've got to be in a position to help others, first._

She huffed, grabbing the kettle from the sideboard in the kitchen. Maybe she was just a really awful person, or maybe she was just too tired. Maybe she just didn't want to have to care about people who didn't care about her, anymore. Didn't want to be a part of their stupid, horrid game, anymore! Didn't she get a say in that, even? She'd never had a say in it before, but she figured it was about time she got one. About time she got to say, "Enough is enough. I'm out!"

Why should she have always had to be looking over her back, wary that someone else might come along who wanted nothing more than to bleed her dry, for all she was worth? Why couldn't they just give it a rest and get on with their own lives, rather than intruding in other people's and making them Hell? Didn't they have their own lives! It was sick!

_Sure_, she thought scathingly, _they've got their own lives. They just happen to think we're not worth shit and they should be able to exploit us and use us to their heart's content, as long as it's in the pursuit of making _their own_ lives better! They're sick freaks! When is it going to get through your head, girl! Sick freaks! Nothing more! If they ever were human beings once, they threw that part of themselves out with the trash long ago. Get used to it. Life sucks for some people. It doesn't mean those people have to go out of their way to do everything humanly possible to play victim to the sick freaks. Fight back! Don't let them win without even trying! It's your life, too!_


	3. Chapter 3

**Additional Disclaimer** I don't own the song _There's a New Moon Over My Shoulder_, its lyrics or music in any way.

.

After her coffee, Emily sat down to read the newspaper. When she closed it, finally, she could hear the sound of people talking. She stood up, wondering what was up, and waited for them to arrive. They were giving it a rest, for the day, Jarod told her. They'd let the lunatic think about it, stew some. De Berg needed a break.

Hearing that, de Berg chipped in, "I'm not a machine, unfortunately."

Emily snuck a look Margaret's way, but she was already on the phone, presumably with Charles, talking away. Emily decided to stretch her legs, go for a walk around the farm, get some air.

Coming back from her walk, she saw that the others had all gone off. Had other things to do, she supposed, and poured herself a glass of water.

Placing the glass upside down in the sink, it struck her that she could do something nice and take Lyle a glass of water, too. She wouldn't have particularly liked being tied up in someone's basement without anything to drink and with no-one to talk to. Especially if she was mad, she thought. Then she'd just have her own mad thoughts for company, which would more than likely suck.

She grabbed a clean glass and filled it at the tap, making sure, when she stepped into the hall, that no-one else was around to see where she was headed.

In the basement, she set the glass down on the upturned wooden crate that served as a makeshift coffee table in front of the couch, and went to find another chair. There was one by the wall, with some dusty, nondescript-looking boxes she was keen the avoid. She picked it up, careful not to disturb the dust too much, and took it with her across the room, setting it down near Lyle's chair.

"Do you want some water?" she asked. "I have some, just over there." She glanced in the direction of the couch and crate.

"Go away," he replied, not bothering to look at her, his tone clearly suggesting she was being a deliberate pain-in-the-ass, that he'd rather just pretend she didn't exist.

"You're not thirsty? I wou-"

"Shut up!" he snapped, finally, shooting her a glare. Oh, she would, would she! "Stop trying to... to do that! _I'm not like you!_ Hell, sure, yeah, I _look_ like one of you. I guess I must look pretty regular to you, huh! Don't mean a thing. I'm a real fucking maniac, okay! Stop, _doing that_! Trying to make me out to be one of you! You make me sick! Just because I look sorta like a normal person, to you, you think maybe, inside, I might be sorta like you, too! Please! I'm gonna vomit! So what, I don't look like some... some terrorist, so you should really feel bad for me because... maybe I didn't want to be like this! Did it ever occur to you that even _a couple_ of those people you label _terrorists_ are just people like you and all of your _weirdo little friends_, just trying to live their lives? You think, just because I look harmless, I look like _one of you_, that I should feel like it, too! That I must really be just the same as all of you, deep down inside! Don't make me puke!"

Emily dropped the big eyes. No use, really. "You're not very nice, you know," she pointed out. Though, really, saying so really wasn't of any more use, either.

"Get out of my face!" he growled, glaring at her like he'd have _made her_ get out of his face, if he'd been able to.

She shrugged. Not likely. He was tied up to that chair pretty good, and the chair was fixed fairly tightly to that support pillar. "If that's what you want, I won't force the issue. I'll be over there, at the couch." She stood up, leaving the chair where it was, and turned to walk off.

She heard him sigh irritably. "Where's Mira? What have you done with him?"

"I don't know anyone by that name," she replied, still not turning around.

"The Clausen freak! If you want to do something _nice_ for me," he said it like the very thought had the power to seriously hurt him, "keep that crazy de Berg woman away from him!"

"Too late," she quipped, just for the Hell of it, to get back at him for being such an idiot and a stick-in-the-mud and an obstinate pig, "they're having babies! Got the names and everything already picked out!" She smiled, glad that she hadn't turned back around so he wouldn't be able to see her satisfaction in saying so.

"Go kill yourself, freak!"

She choked. "Why don't you, murdering bastard?" she hissed, spinning around and glaring daggers at him.

"I can't. I'm tied up. Or else I would! Just so I wouldn't have to hear your silly little voice any longer! It's fucking sickening!"

She scowled, making a face. "You are fucking sickening, idiot! Every time I look at you, I want to gag! You're a sick freak! I'd hate you, but the thought alone of thinking of you, makes me want to _kill_ myself!"

"I'm sure," he replied, interrupting her rant, a slightly amused note to his tone. "You're certainly Jarod's sister. Your brother struggles with grasping the concept of overkill, too."

She laughed incredulously, and flinched at the loudness of the sound in the virtually empty room, the sound amplifying against the drab concrete walls. "You're the one who can't grasp overkill, loser!"

"Really? How the fuck would you know? You don't know me. Shut your stupid silly mouth. You're going to give me a brain aneurism."

"Oh good," she bit back, "I hope it's soon!"

"It will be, the way you're going," he muttered darkly.

She scoffed, shooting him a dirty look. "As I say, I fucking hope so!" Turning on her heel, she stalked off and plonked herself down at the couch, resting her shoes on the overturned crate. "Are you dead yet?" she snapped, not bothering to look.

"Unfortunately not," Lyle replied, refraining from an eye roll. He'd rather be dead than stuck in some creepy ass basement with some creepy ass redhead with a gob. "Jarod's got a gun, right? Go find it and bring it back here. You can do me a favour and shoot me. I can't stand any of you."

She snorted. "I don't like guns."

"You can't be much of a human, then," he told her. "They can't get enough of them. Guns, drugs, excessively violent video games. That's half of the fun, right there, baby. What's wrong with you? Shit, your life must really drag. You poor thing!" He laughed. "Get a life or something and bugger off, will you."

"Nope," she said merely. "You're stuck with me."

"Oh fuck! I hate you, bitch!"

"Ew!"

He laughed. "What do you mean, 'Ew_'_?"

"Ew!" She shivered in exaggerated horror. "If I had a gun right now, I think I might be tempted to shoot you, just for that! You're a creepy fucking weirdo - and I don't want you thinking about me! At all!"

"If you don't want me thinking about you, then maybe you could be a darl and _fuck off already_! I'm not exactly jumping for joy, over here. I don't want to think about you, either! I'm _sick to death_ of thinking about you! But you're there, and I can... hear you breathing! It's frankly fucking disturbing! I don't even want to think about how _disturbing_ it is, how _disgusting_ it is! You should have a little switch people can switch on and off whenever you start getting on their nerves; you're like, the ultimate torture device!"

Emily laughed. Was he even bothering to listen to the claptrap he was blurting out, and that _I can't even fathom something like that, it's too... unthinkably horrific_ tone of his - it was just too funny. She couldn't help but laugh at that.

"Oh shut up," he replied, "it's not even funny."

"I think it's hilariously funny," she countered, with amusement. "I'm in stitches."

"Whilst you're about it, do you mind stitching your _mouth_ shut!"

"Awwww... No! Actually."

"Actually what?" he asked, in annoyance.

"Actually no!"

He rolled his eyes. "Actually yes. Shut up."

"Shut up yourself, then, why don't you!"

"You first, princess!"

She glared at the far wall, silently fuming, but didn't say anything back. After a while, she gave it up with the glare; it was starting to hurt her head. She sighed quietly and took her shoes off the crate. A noise like breaking glass told her she'd knocked the glass to the floor and smashed it, and she huffed, all the more annoyed.

"Good job," Lyle said.

"Shut up. It's your fault, anyway."

"It is not."

She made a face. "_It is not!_" she mocked, kneeling down to pick up the pieces of broken glass.

"Watch out you don't cut yourself."

"Shut up," she droned, reaching for another piece of glass. Actually, it was a good thing. It gave her an easy excuse to leave, though she could have done that any time she wanted. Leave the loony on his own. Like she cared anymore!

She stood up, glass in hand, and sighed, stepping over the water splashed across the concrete and headed for the stairs.

"Tally-ho!" Lyle called out.

_Loser_, she mouthed, and said nothing back.

"You shouldn't blame yourself for your depravity, you know," he called out, as a parting comment. "It's more than likely inherited. Your mother's got it, too."

Emily froze on the bottom step, gritting her teeth. Resisting a scathing reply or a growl, she stormed up the steps determinately, only just managing to hang back from slamming the door furiously after her when she caught sight of daylight again, in the hall.

She marched stiffly to the kitchen, dumped the broken glass in the trash, washed her hands at the sink and refilled a new glass.

All the way back down the steps, she managed not to grin or break into maniacal laughter, much to her surprise, even when Lyle moaned - Shit, she was back, was she? Was there just no getting rid of her, or what? What a depressing thought! Maybe she was crushing on him, or something. Oh God! Far from depressing, that bordered on... fruitcake, anyone? - and made a big show of slumping his shoulders in apparently strong disappointment.

He'd know disappointment in a minute, Emily thought darkly, with an injection of savage delight, fighting back the urge to break into creepy giggles. _Don't spoil the surprise. Don't spoil the surprise_, she repeated to herself mentally, over and over.

Appearing before him, she fixed him with a heated glare, snapping loudly, "Oh, _I'm_ depraved!", and threw the water on him.

For a long couple of seconds, there was something almost like silence.

Then: "Do I look like a plant to you?" he asked, finally, in a none-too-pleased tone, but a surprisingly calm one, too. Dull.

"You're the one who said you weren't a person," she reminded him. "Which begs the question: If not a person, then what are? A plant!"

"Maybe I'm an alien," he suggested plainly.

She burst out laughing, raising her hand to point at him, which unfortunately turned out to be the hand holding the glass.

He widened his eyes. "You wanna try knocking me out with that thing, too?"

She put her arm back down, dropping the smile. "Freak!"

"Yep, I think we already established that. But seriously," he widened his eyes, "do it! You look kinda funny, to me. Perks of the drugs, baby. Honestly, I'm seeing feelers. Hit me! _I dare you._"

"I don't do dares," she replied stalely, her expression one hundred percent turned off.

He frowned. "Ah... Please?"

She snickered. "What was that?"

"Go to Hell."

She laughed. "I know you will be! If you're gonna be there, I don't want anything to do with the place!"

"I don't believe in Hell," he told her.

"How do you know I do?"

"I never said you did."

"You said I should go there," she reminded him.

"It's a figure of speech, okay," he replied, grimacing.

"Well you know where you can take your figure of speech and stick it!"

He stared at her. "That was disturbing."

She smiled sweetly, tossing her chin. "I can be that, too, honey!"

"Wow, you really can," he told her. "I think that was possibly even more disturbing than what you came out with before. Boy, you're getting good. You know what they say, 'practice makes perfect'. Go on and get gone. Go practice your Little Miss Princess Disturbia act on someone else, huh, hon. I'll just be here, on my own, thinking about..." He smiled. "Stuff."

"Stuff that doesn't include me," she snapped, wiping the smile off her face.

"Oh, definitely stuff that doesn't include you, love."

"Gross!" she muttered, and turned and stalked off.

He started to hum _There's a New Moon Over My Shoulder_.

Very sadly, she thought, she knew that song. God, how creepy! They listened to the same music! Even if it was just the one song, it frankly unsettled her. What kind of things did he think about when he listened to songs like that? Surely nothing like the things she thought about. It gave her a creepy-crawly feeling under her skin.

"There's a new moon over my shoulder, and an old love _still in his grave_!" she started to sing, under her voice, marching up the stairs. "I remember, now that I'm older, what I told you the day I hacked you apart. I promised, with the new moon, you'd be rotting under the ground. Now many moons have passed since then, you're decomposing merrily..."

"Pardon me?" Jarod asked, at the top of the stairs.

Emily froze, nearly falling over her feet and tripping up on the steps. Crap! Crap, crap, crap.

"What are you doing in here?" he asked.

She held up the glass in her hand. Oh, thank goodness! "Getting my glass," she replied.

"As long as that's all you're doing," he said. "I don't want you down here with him. I don't trust him. He might try-" He fell short, at the look of wide-eyed horror on Emily's face. "He might try to get into your head and control you," he forced himself to finish.

"I'm fine," she reassured him, and slipped past him, out into the hallway. Uh-huh, get into my head, she thought to herself. Like he'd want to, with the way he'd been blathering on about how disturbed and depraved she so obviously was!

Jarod backed out of the room and pulled the door closed, locking it after him. Of course she was, he told himself, completely fine, and shook his head, turning away from the door. He followed her to the kitchen, wondering if she would tell him if she wasn't, or if she'd feel too ashamed and humiliated by the very thought to shared what she was really feeling.

Unbidden, the thought occurred to him that she'd gone down there to kill Lyle. Shaking himself mentally, he shook off the thought. Emily wasn't like that. She just... wasn't.

In one way, it was a problem, dangerous; in another, it gladdened him. She wasn't so crazy monster masquerading as a person, she really was a person. She wasn't sick and twisted, even though she might have chosen to be, because she'd chosen not to be. She was his little sister and she was a wonderful person. And he loved her.

He bet she'd really gone down there to see how Lyle was, to make sure he was still alive, or whatnot. She'd been honestly alarmed by their mother's sudden turn in demeanor, he recalled. He supposed she was worried for Margaret; worried she'd do something she'd later regret and then, with no way of turning back the clock, be forced to live with it for the rest of her life.

Unfortunately, Emily still thought Lyle was Miss Parker's twin. If he could have done so safely, he'd have told her how wrong that assumption was.

.

Dinnertime came and went, Emily didn't feel exceptionally hungry - not with a lunatic downstairs, a lunatic who happened to be Empathic, no less - but she forced herself to eat something, anyway, to eat everything on her plate. It felt strange, not to want to eat. Inside her chest, she could feel the beginnings of panic. She allayed her fears easily, brushing them aside. She'd regain her appetite as soon as the loony was gone, out of her hair. She couldn't help wondering if he was hungry, if they were going to give him something to eat later, too.

They couldn't very well not give him anything, he'd get sick, and she didn't imagine a person's abilities held very tightly in check when that happened. She knew nothing of what it was, or might be, like, to be an Empath, but she'd heard nothing but horror stories from Jarod when he'd fleetingly mentioned his friend, Angelo. In other words, she'd gathered that it wasn't at all a nice thing, to be that way, to be like a door that stuck, just before closing, or refused to ever truly close, and, when one's back was turned to it, would inexplicably creak open again.

Whilst she knew that wasn't how Lyle was, that he hadn't been damaged to the extent that Angelo had been, she didn't think it would be nice, either way. She wondered how that would go down, when he was killing all those poor girls. But maybe that was part of it.

She shook her head, mentally, admonishing herself. No wonder she didn't want to eat, with her head full of thoughts of murder and cannibalism!

She sighed, casting a dubious glance to her food, then reaching for her glass. Surely one would have to take special caution, if they were to eat people. People were full of unsavoury things, clogged up their bodies with them: pharmaceuticals, preservatives and other additives, artficial flavourings and colourings, heavy metals and disruptive compounds that settled in the brain and other body tissue.

She looked back at her dinner. Vegetables, meat, and gravy. Potatoes, carrots, beans, pumpkin.

She'd peeled the potatoes and the pumpkin. The potatoes had been quite easily, but the pumpkin wasn't as easy. She'd slipped with the peeler and cut into her finger. Ridiculously, she always did the same thing, when she peeled pumpkin. She always nicked herself and ended up sporting a Band Aid. This time, it was blue. One of those safety ones, she supposed.

Mo had washed the carrots. They'd been fresh enough to leave the skin on, not to peel. And he'd had to take the beans away until they were ready to be cooked because Jarod had kept nicking them and eating them. They were the yellow, goldeny ones. Emily always thought they were pretty cute. She'd seen them in stir fries, but Margaret didn't like stir fry. She said it was a lot of trouble. Messy. She didn't like woks. All you did was stir the stuff and half of it was on the floor. Sure, she liked her vegies with a bit of life still left in them, but she couldn't handle a wok. There was just no way!

When Charles was around, he had no trouble with stuff like that; he was always willing to give it a go, but then, he enjoyed cooking more than Margaret did. It was all pretty mundane, from Margaret's point-of-view, pretty boring. There was nothing worse than standing in front of a pot and not being able to stir it, even though you had nothing to do and were dying of boredom and you'd need to stir it in a couple of moments anyway; nothing worse than having to watch and wait for something to boil, then turn it down to simmer and wait for it longer still!

She hadn't used to be like that, Emily thought. She'd used to enjoy cooking more. But now, she didn't enjoy a whole lot of things. It was sad. Emily found it very sad. She wished her dad was around more. Not just for herself and her brothers, but for her mom, too.

It must have killed Margaret to be away from someone she loved so deeply for so long, for such long gaps of time. Just thinking about it made Emily's chest hurt. Whenever she saw her mom looking down, she'd think of her dad. She'd think, _I wish Dad were here. He'd be able to cheer Mom up._

Like right now. She wished her dad were with them, now. If Charles were around, they'd have been smiling and talking, instead of glum-faced and withdrawn, very nearly not talking at all.

She glanced at Ethan, trying to catch his eye, and sent him a smile across the table, but he didn't smile back. He was off somewhere else, lost in his thoughts, the picture of glum.

She noticed Jarod smiling and suppressed a sigh. Not the beans again! Still, she thought, it was a good thing. He wasn't all gloom and doom, there was a bit of lightness, there.

"Would you stop grinning like that!" Margaret finally snapped, fed up. "If you want to eat, I'm not going to bite your head off over it!"

Jarod scratched his neck, glancing at her. "Right," he said.

Ethan smiled. Obviously, he'd zoned back in in time to catch Margaret's snappy words. He looked at Mo, who frowned. Jarod, huh!

"Personally, I don't see what the big deal with the beans," de Berg put in, when Jarod glanced at her as though to ask if she wanted some more beans.

"They're yellow!" Jarod supplied cheerfully.

"Ah, yeah," the woman replied, with some uncertainty in her eyes. So the beans were yellow.

"I'm right," Emily said, before Jarod could ask her, too, and stood up to pass him the dish with the beans in it. Margaret usually didn't both with bringing dishes of food to the table, and whatnot, but with de Berg staying, she'd decided she'd put in a little more effort.

Emily wanted to say something to the other woman, to defend her brother from the woman's critical eye, but she couldn't think of anything that wouldn't just embarrass him further. Sure, she could point out that regular beans were green, but that would just sound... kind of idiotic. Obviously, de Berg had no interest in understanding other people, though she was an Empath. Her body language clearly illustrated that, the how she acted as though she knew so much more than everyone else, and if something turned out differently to how she'd imagined, shit, then it must have been wrong and she must still have been right. It obviously needed correcting.

De Berg was a jerk, in Emily's opinion. Not that she would say so, though. She'd just embarrass herself and the rest of the family, too, and she'd piss de Berg off to no end. She wondered that de Berg hadn't sensed it yet, or whatever, but de Berg lived pretty much in de Berg Land. She wasn't interested in other people's thoughts and feeling unless it was absolutely imperative that she be.

After tea, Emily stayed in the kitchen to help clean up. Eventually, she was the only one left. She refilled the electric kettle and took it back to the side bench and plugged it in, clicking it on. The little light that came on to indicate the water was in the process of heating up annoyed her, just then.

She left the electric contraption to its own devices and had a hunt around for a regular, old kettle, the type that could be heated on the stove top and would give a loud whistle when it was done. Unfortunately, her search came up empty, and she glumly deposited of herself in one of the kitchen chairs again.

The water done, she scooped coffee grounds into the plunger and let it brew, pouring hot water over a pot of green tea for de Berg and leaving it to steep, also, taking another look at the benchtop to see if it needed another wipe. It was fine.

She settled back in her chair, then stood up again.

.

"You'd think it wouldn't be as cold in here," she said, from the basement stair's bottom step, "but it's quite cool, isn't it." receiving no reply, she left the step and walked further into the room, going on, "I might have a look upstairs for a jumper or a coat of some description, if you'd like. It's not very much fun, the cold."

She'd switched the light on at the top of the stairs, but only now noticed that she'd been blabbing on for no reason. Lyle was probably asleep.

"By goodness, I'm good," she commented to herself.

"I'm not asleep," Lyle told her quietly, opening his eyes. "I was thinking."

"Yeah, I do that sometimes," she replied, sighing.

"You'd hope so, wouldn't you," he said, merely.

Emily walked over and sat down in the chair she'd earlier dug out of one of the corners, facing Lyle. "I've something to ask, if that's alright with you."

"Shoot."

Emily frowned, rubbing her eye. "De Berg, that's not her first name is it, surely?"

"No."

Emily leaned closer, pleased not to have made a fool of herself. "Do you know her first name?"

"No."

She sighed, leaning back in her chair. It wasn't the most comfortable chair, she noticed. At least it was a chair, and it didn't gouge into her back. "We've coffee upstairs, if you'd like," she said. "And green tea..." She shrugged. "De Berg is fond of it. It's not entirely to my taste. Yucky. But then, there's nothing wrong with that. Part of it's what you're used to, I guess."

"What happened with your... thing?"

"You can't tell?" she asked, a little bleakly, then sat up straighter in her chair, trying for a little more attentiveness. "What's that called..." She waved her hand about. "Fencing! I was... fencing," gosh, that sounded strange, "and had an accident."

Lyle bit his lip, trying not to smile. Pretty funny.

"You can laugh," Emily replied, not so enthused. How could she forget the name of it! Was she the world's biggest dill bat today, or what!

He laughed. "What's it called!"

"It was a momentary lapse of recall," she returned. "I totally know the name of it."

"Mmm, _that fencing_." He shook his head. "Now's your turn to laugh, girly. I thought you meant fencing... with fences."

She pulled a face. "You don't fence with...!" Pff!

He frowned, narrowing his gaze on hers. "You know, putting up fences. We call that fencing, too."

"How obvious," she replied, in a droning tone. Wow, she was really showing her smarts today! Dill bat!

"It's Trudy."

She frowned.

"De Berg's first name. It's Trudy. Trudy de Berg." He smiled. "So, first impressions can be a bitch. She's really not that bad, after all, hey?"

"Mmm."

"Translation...?"

"Wha'do you mean? She's not that bad, in what context?"

He frowned. "She's... not that bad. Just that. You know, she's actually quite personable when she wants to be, blah, blah, bl..." He shook his head. "They're not really... a couple, are they?"

"What?" She widened her eyes. "No! _No._ You- Honestly, I though you understood I was having you on."

"Okay, well, you know, I'm glad that's cleared up. The outcome mayn't be as pleasing as expected, but, um, that's very helpful. Tah."

"I was joking," Emily told him, with wide eyes. Oh, how could he think she'd been serious! About something like that!

"Of course. Of course."

Emily frowned. "Are you just... being civil back to me because I am to you? Is that it? Some kind of... Empathy thing?"

"I expect so."

She smiled. "Well I'm glad that's cleared up. Good to know, you know." She sighed, putting a hand over her mouth and refraining from leaning closer. "Aren't you cold? I'm cold, and I've got this cardigan. Got a coat, upstairs. A nice one, too. One of those, you know, the puffy ones. It's not waterproof, but I'm sort of semi attached to it. It's red. It probably clashed awfully with my hair, mind you." She winced, her eyes going sort of blurry and teary. She was tired, but it wasn't even after nine. No way was she going to bed this early. It was unhealthy. She didn't want to end up like that, sleeping and sleeping and never getting up, or, when she did, acting like it was such a chore. She was going to beat her gloomy turn, it wasn't going to beat her!

"Oh, you are too cold! Don't be silly. Of course you are. You must be." She stood up, suddenly. "I'll see if I can have a word with Jarod."

Lyle shook his head. "There's no need. You'll only get him in a mood. Either that, or your mom. You don't want to... to upset them, make yourself unpopular. They're your family. I wouldn't ask that of you. Family's got to stick together. Just you stick with yours; I'll be right, on my own."

"No," she shook her head back, "it's cold. Besides, though you haven't always done so in the past, I think it's only the right thing to do to treat your prisoners with respect. They're still human beings, no matter what. It isn't the right message to send to treat them like dirt. And it's not honest."

"I'm not a human being, Emily," he replied. "I am dirt. I'm not at all respectful of other people, nor considerate. I don't expect you to respect me, okay."

"Well, that's the wrong attitude. We should all respect each other as human beings. If that's what we're born as, then that's what we are. If we're a particularly encouraging example of humanity, or not."

He frowning, looking confused. "What planet are you from again?"

"The same planet you're from. Of course. The difference between you and me, I'm starting to see, is that I like being a human being. Don't... take that the wrong way, but I like being a person, and I think there are certain standards a person should strive to achieve, and I do strive to achieve them. I do. Things like consideration for others, and common decency. Sometimes, I go a bit off the deep end and let myself get carried away, I have a bit of a mouth, as you've no doubt noticed, but I'd be horrified to think I could ever kill someone else, or... or take it out on someone else something that I felt unfair, just because I thought that was fair enough, evening the scales. That's not fair enough, it's wrong. I don't care what sort of a person you are, that's not going to change what sort of a person I am. That's the theory, anyway.

"I don't believe that all people are bad and that humanity is beyond hope. I believe that people can do the right thing, if they're given the opportunity. I want to do the right thing. I want to set a good example. And when I muck up and go too far, I expect someone to pull me up. I want someone else to say, 'Look, think about it, okay.' I think I need that support... so it's not just me, with these thoughts and ideas racing around in my mind, but I'm too... too lazy or too afraid to grab hold of them and say, 'Yes, I think this is the right one.' I want someone else to... stand with me."

She sighed, crossing her arms over her chest to try to warm herself up, a bit. "I'm going to talk to Jarod. I've made my mind up. Don't try to talk me out of it, because it won't work. I don't care if you're mad and you're a murderer; you're still a human being and I can't treat you like you're not. Maybe you haven't earned anyone's consideration, but you've got it, anyway. You're one of us. You were born one of us. If you don't like it, that's too bad. I'm going now."

She picked up her chair and took it with her to the couch, placing it on the other side of the "coffee table", and headed for the door, the stairs, again. Really, she just didn't feel comfortable doing the wrong thing by other people, and even if she felt uncomfortable, or it brought her discomfort, by her own actions or by others', it was a sight more comforting to know she wasn't an aggressor, too; to know she was doing the right thing, even if others weren't. It was a comfort, to know that some people still believed that it meant something, to be a part of something like humanity, to treat others with respect and consideration and not just to take, take, take until there was nothing left. It gave her a lot of comfort, in fact.

.

"Don't interfere, Emily," Jarod told her, sounding slightly ticked, when she'd explained the whole thing to him. "I thought I told you to stay away from that place, to stay away from _him_! Don't involve yourself."

She frowned, an edge of annoyance working its way onto her face, now, too. "I beg your pardon, but I think it concerns just as much as it does you! Or any of us! I'm a part of this, too! You dragged me into it! At least do me the courtesy of _listening to me_ when I _say something_! I can't believe you can be so heartless! You, of all people! But, you know what, I don't care if he's a Goddamn mass murderer! We are not! That's not any way to treat another human being!" she said hotly.

Jarod sighed, frowning at her sadly. "He's not a human being, Emily. He's a monster, plain and simple. And, just as a point of interest, for your information, heartless is the only thing he understands. Kindness, doesn't even make an impression on his loony radar! Get that into your head, will you!"

"I'm not a monster!" she yelled, now, "and I won't have anyone forcing me into becoming one! I don't care if he _is_ a monster. I'm not! And neither are you! You're my brother, damn it! My- my brother can't be a monster! Don't make me into this... this person!" Her lip wobbled, her eyes misting up. "I don't want to have to be the person who... who puts up with someone else's shit just because I love them, because I can't imagine not caring for them, even when... when it goes against everything in me! Don't put me in that position, Jarod!" Her voice held just the barest hint of a whine. "I trust you!"

He shook his head. "Emily, stop it. You're making this into something it isn't. Why can't you see that? I don't... I don't get you, sometimes. At least, if you're not going to see reason, get one thing straight. You're in a minority here, Em. No-one's going to take your side. Concede the fact and move on."

Her eyes shone suddenly, determinately. "No! I won't concede anything! You're not taking my humanity away from me! Not you! Not anyone! I won't become what he is, just for the sake of surviving. If that's what you call life, then I don't want to live!"

"Emily!"

She shook her head violently, reaching for the door. "I'm going out, and you're not going to stop me," she told him stiffly, holding back tears.

Jarod didn't understand what something like this meant to her, not yet. He'd been playing along for so long, that he knew all the moves by heart, without even having to think about them. Trouble was, they were _their_ moves. He didn't even know it, but he was playing right into their hands. He thought he was fighting back, fighting for what was right, fighting the good fight, and he was. He was _trying_! The only problem was, he'd already let them win, by conceding to play by their rules! In this game, they owned the game, and he was just playing along.

Actually physically shaking now, Emily ripped open the door and stormed out, into the hall.

Jarod was right behind her, reaching for her arm. "Emily!"

"What's going on here?" a voice asked, suddenly, from the end of the hall, and both Emily and Jarod looked around to see their mother standing there, surveying them with a strange sort of interest, a cold sort of interest. Was there a problem?

Jarod put his hands up.

"I'm fine," Emily said, and walked away. She told herself she didn't care what her mom thought. She didn't care if her mom thought she was wrong, or a freak. Any of it. She didn't care about any of it. Her own family thought they could make her into this- this hideous thing, and that would be okay, because they were her family and they loved her. They'd always still love her!

At that moment, she just felt sick to her stomach.

"It's fine," Jarod told their mom, putting his hands down. "She... she's just worried about Dad. He's out there and... and we've got one of them. She thought, maybe they'd take it out on Dad, if they got the chance. I told her Dad can look after himself. Which is true. He'll be fine."

Margaret sighed. "That's the way it's always been, in the past," she said, and turned and walked back the way she'd come.

Jarod stood there, for a few moments, hardly daring to move, wondering if his mom really believed her husband would be okay, or not, and finally withdrew from his troubling thoughts to close the door. Sure, of course his Dad would be right. Margaret was right. He always had been, in the past. He'd be fine. Of course he would be.

Besides, the Centre didn't even know they had their creepy little psychopath. As far as he was aware, they didn't know. That was the beauty of vacation. You could tell people where you'd be, at what time, and when you'd be arriving back, but they only knew you were gone when you didn't show.

They had days to win the little freak around to their side, yet, he thought. To convince him that it would be in his best interests to cross over to their side, anyway.

And they would win. In the end, they would come out the victors, in this battle, at least. They had no other choice. Things were getting dicier by the day, now. If they didn't have someone on their side, then they'd all be screwed. They had no choice. They couldn't afford to lose. Whatever it took, they couldn't shy back from it now. There was no time to flinch; they had to be prepared to take action, and to do so ruthlessly. It was either that or surrender, and he'd never concede to giving up.

Never.

.

"Emily! Emily, stop this! Don't act up!"

"No! Get off me!" She shot back from him, trying to keep out of his reach, but he got a hold of her arms, anyway. She started to struggle.

"Stop it!"

"Hey!" Lyle interrupted. "She's just trying to do what she thinks is right, her thinking's just a little mixed up, that's all. It's not her fault. If you're looking for someone to blame, here, blame me. I should have made it clearer to her; I'm not like her, I'm a monster. You don't play nice with the monsters, you kill them and be done with it. You start playing nice with them, they'll have you for dinner when your back's turned. Oh, they'll play nice back, but it'll be nothing more than a lie. That's my mistake. It's not hers. She's just a little naive. She'll outgrow it. But you have to give her the opportunity to do it on her own terms."

"I'm not naive!" Emily screamed, struggling to break free of Jarod's hold on her arms and getting nowhere.

"Of course you are," Lyle replied. "Look at yourself. You're not really trying to get free; you're scared of hurting him. You don't win any battles when you're scared of involving yourself, Emily. No matter what, you've gotta get in there, you've gotta be a part of it. You don't do that, you're never gonna win. You're just going to be something that's there and is expendable. You've got to stick up for _your_self. No-one else is going to do it for you, when they're all busy fighting other battles. Stop flailing around and give it up. I'm not asking you for your help. I don't need your support, and I sure as Hell don't want it. I can stick up for myself very well! You play that stupid little game and you're just going to end up another nameless, worthless casualty. Stick with the people who could give a damn about you, for goodness sakes! You're not seeing reality."

Jarod scowled. What an ass! Emily went out on a limb for him and here he was, telling her he'd rather die than accept her help; that she'd put herself out there, essentially, for nothing, because she was a child and a damn fool.

"Emily, no-one's going to fault you for it. Give it up, now. You don't have to do this. Your family, they're the ones who need you right now. Help them out, hey. I got myself into this, knowing full well how it all goes, knowing all the rules. I chose this. Don't... You don't have to go down with me. I wouldn't ask that of anyone. Plenty of people have tried to help me, believe you me, and every time, every single Goddamn time, I've ignored them. This is my fight, my life. I won't be responsible for you fucking up your life, too. Trust me, I've already got enough lives on my hands. I don't need yours too. And I don't want it! In the very least, give me the choice to choose, yeah? You don't have to feel bad because of me." He sighed.

"No, don't... don't shake your head like that. I get a say in this too, you know. Don't be a control freak. I never asked you to give a damn, you put that on yourself, yourself. Just stop. Stop. I won't blame you. _No-one_ will blame you. My choice. Hmmm. Emily! It's my choice. Don't fuck up the one good thing you have. They love you very much. I'm sure you can see that, too. They deserve better than this, don't you think? After everything I've put them through, everything I've put _you_ through, I don't want you to do this. To be honest, I'm a bit freaked out. You're making me very uncomfortable. I won't agree to do this crazy thing for you, but I will give you a word of advice: I'm not going to change, not now. You can try your damnedest, and I'll still see you as nothing more than an aggravating, Goddamn pest. Just... go, before I... say something crazy, uncalled for mean.

"This is a really hard thing for me, but I promise, I won't be mad at you. Not in the slightest. I'll let all of it go; pretend I don't even know you, if you want. Just like before. I absolutely promise. But I want you to listen to your brother! You don't have to... you don't have to agree with everything he's saying, but listen to what he has to say and try to give it some thought from a perspective other than your own, limited one. I apologise for having to put it that way, but I feel it's only right. From my point-of-view, it's true. You're... not thinking about the others, you're just thinking about yourself. Sometimes, you have no choice but to retaliate in exactly the same way you are attacked. Sometimes, it's the only thing that will make any difference anymore. We're all soldiers in one way or another, in this world. That's just what happens in war. People die.

"Look on the bright side, I'm not even worthy of being called that. Of being called a person. No-one's going to care less if I die, and you know, when I'm dead, even _I_ won't care less. Really, I'm just pretending to live. Hasn't it clicked into place yet? I'm not... I'm not alive. I'm too fucking scared to live. I live in my own little world, and my own little world alone! That isn't living, Emily. That's bullshit! You've got your whole life ahead of you. Don't throw it away as though it was so much rubbish! It's not. It's wonderful. Just... open your eyes and see that. You still have that chance."

"So do you!" she retorted, not bothering to brush her tears away. "You're just an idiot! You're just scared!"

"I am what I am, I'm afraid," he replied, sighing. "I don't want to try anymore. I couldn't be bothered. At this point, it's not worth the effort."

She glared at him fiercely. "You're the one who can't open your eyes and see what's in front of you!" she hissed. "You don't even _know_ what living is!"

"No, I don't," he conceded. "Is it too much to ask for that you don't go down the same path that I did. You're just a kid, really. I don't want to give you the wrong idea. Don't... don't do what I did, okay. Take a chance. All it can do is kill you. In most cases, not even that. And look what you've got to gain. There's so much you can..." He sighed, looking pained. "I took that away from Kyle, I'm not going to make the same mistake with you. _You_ are going to do something with your life, be someone. You're gonna meet someone, a really nice someone, and they're gonna be there for you, just like you told me. They're gonna be there for you, and you know the best part, you're gonna be there for them right back. Don't kill it before it's even born, hey. You're not that person, Emily. Give yourself a chance to see that. It won't be the end of the world."

"I hate you!" she spat.

"Well, to be honest, you can hate me as much as you like. Be my guest, I say. This is what I'm going to do: I don't know you, I don't want to know you - you don't exist! Fair enough. Now go on, get out of here. Go, talk about your feelings with your diary, or whatever..."

"Are you ready to go?" Jarod asked her, glancing at her in concern.

"Just get out of my face!" she snapped, and stormed past him, in the direction of the stairs. Storming out into the hall, she slammed the door loudly. The sound rung hollowly in the room.

Lyle sighed. "I'm kinda glad Parker and I aren't on brotherly-sisterly terms. Who knew sisters could be such hard work? But I'm sure you'll manage it finely and with all good grace, as you always do. The answer's still _no_, by the way. I can lie, when the need necessitates it. That girl was just getting to be beyond annoying. Glad that's over and done with!"

"Enjoy your evening," Jarod merely replied, bending down to retrieve the blanket off the floor, and walked out.

.

Left alone in the dark, Lyle refrained from sighing. He was sick of this crappy basement! Sick of the cold, sick of everything!

But he'd just have to live with it, because, after all, he had no choice. And more than that, even, he had a reason to, now. From now on, he'd shut up whenever Emily was around. She obviously wasn't one to talk about feelings with. She couldn't control herself in the least bit. She was a danger to herself and everyone around her. Completely charming, in every other regard, of course - but a Goddamn danger! She was cute. He supposed that might have been the thing of it, with him. She was cute - adorable, really - but she just couldn't think to save her life.

For some reason, with her, he just didn't find it appealing.

Of course, she wasn't his type at all. Cute, but not his type of cute. Stuffed toys cute, little kid cute. Not his kind of cute at all.

At that juncture, he recalled his earlier line of thought. The reason people were so quick to make assumptions about he was thinking, or feeling; the reason they thought, just maybe, they'd be able to build up a rapport with him, come to an understanding, _trust_ him. He _looked_ like them, looked like a normal, everyday person! He was sick of it in the worst way possible; would have preferred to be hideously ugly than have Emily look at him like that, one more time.

Deep down inside, he imagined she was just very, very, very lonely.

It was about time someone came along and fixed that.

He didn't _want_ her to relate to him, to think of him as a person and give a damn, because, frankly, _he_ didn't want to have to see her that way, in return; to give a toss, in return. That he did, upset him very much. That he wasn't able just to switch it off, came close to disturbing.

He could distract himself, though. He'd kinda hoped Ethan had had some luck in the love department, for instance, but obviously that hadn't happened. Parker, either. They were all just sore losers, apparently. It kinda sucked.

A lot.

Worst of all, they really, really needed it. Needed someone to trust, someone to care about; someone to give a damn about them in return. It was easy to kid himself that he'd live, as long as they were okay; he'd manage. He didn't even want that kind of complication in his life! Yep, it was way too easy to convince himself of that, and that, in itself, should have said quite a lot, but he kinda liked the easy answers, the quick and easy solutions, the ones you didn't have to give too much thought, today; so, no, he didn't see that it was just a bit _too_ easy. He was down with it.

But, shit, Ethan would meet someone eventually. He smiled at the thought. Yeah, he would. He was a good kid. A great kid. A total catch, as they said. Hopefully, she'd be just as great, when she finally came along. He had a feeling she would be. Yep, she'd be a keeper. Ethan deserved no less, after all, and all the girls out there, they deserved exactly the same thing.

Parker was another matter. Ethan wasn't openly averse to affection the way she came across as being; Ethan had never really had any of those sorts of relationships before, and he sure as shit hadn't been hurt by them. Parker, on the other hand: she'd stored up enough hurt to fill a mansion, and then some. All of it, directed at one particular area of her life. Mutually caring, meaningful relationships.

She knew what it felt like to be hurt, to be stung, and she'd come to despise, to fear, that feeling more than anything. Enough, even, to keep her from attempting it ever again.

It was too bad.

Too bad.

For her and for whomever she wouldn't meet in the future who she might otherwise have had a really great, fantastic bond with.

He could tell himself it disconcerted him. After all, they were twins. Would it make a difference if he found someone? he'd wonder. Or would it be nothing more than a waste of his time and effort? If she did decide to open her heart to somebody again, and it went bad, she'd more than likely just curl up and die. Did he really want to risk that? Bad for the Prophecy, no? And she _was_ his sister, come on!

At times, he though he kinda liked having a family, even if all they felt for him was hate. It didn't matter. They were still his family. And, if he liked, he could always pretend they really cared about him, deep down inside. After all, how many steps was hate away from love, really? You had to care about the things someone did to hate them, right? To really, truly hate _them_. That was pretty... Well, it was something, at least. Better than nothing, right?

He was sick of going over the same thing, in his mind, over and over. But he went over it again, like he always did. Welcomed the distraction.

_No, it's not better_, he told himself darkly. Putting words into other people's mouths: bad. Trying to shove something down someone's throat when they wanted none of the idea: bad. that would end up: badly.

Sometimes, he thought that was the whole idea with him. He wanted people to lash out, to lose it. Not because he'd find that amusing, he wasn't the only one with a less-than-esteemed record for self-control, not because he'd be able to relate to them, when they were doing their lolly - a lot like he did, a lot of the time - but because that would make him hurt, make him hard-done-by. That would make him the one who'd had to sacrifice so much for shit all end result! Make his day, that would. Poor me. Why does everybody think they can just treat me badly, the way they do? Boo bloody hoo!

It would make him special, the only one in the world who had it as hard as he did! No-one else could possibly understand him, could they? If only his life were easier!

The fact that he didn't have a Goddamn life, to begin with, would never even cross his mind; he'd go on making out he was so hurt, making out he'd had to sacrifice so much shit, because it gave him a jolly good excuse to delude himself that he _did_ have a life! Pathetic, and immature, but what could one do about it? He was a hypocrite of the worst kind. Everything he'd told Emily, all of it, rendered meaningless.

He wanted to roll his eyes. It was true. He didn't even have the guts the girl did. He couldn't even stand to _try_! Even after everything, Parker still did that; but he couldn't even do that! He was clearly afraid to face reality, so he just went on as he always had, living in his own little world, believing everything was as it should have been. Sometimes, he wanted to yell at himself, it was that maddening. "You think you know who you are, but you wouldn't have the first Goddamn clue! How can you have? You can't even relate to other people properly! You think everything's about you! You, you, you! You and no-one else! You're a weirdo! Two words, freak: Get help!"

He made a face, shutting his eyes. Why was he even arguing with himself about this shit! The answer was simple, really, though. He had no-one else to talk to, to argue with. He'd got rid of the one person who he'd possibly, just possibly had a chance of befriending. Easy peasy, easy and pie, blew her off! Just like that.

He was, in all likelihood, a heartless, soulless jerk.

If it had been at all possible to make like he didn't know himself, he was sure now was one of those moments when he'd have been ready to jump on that bandwagon positively with glee.

And he'd come right back to her, again, though he'd been trying very hard to avoid doing so.

He sighed. He was totally insane. Had to be. Not that he needed to be reminded. Maybe just a tiny bit! That jolly conversation would go a little something like: "You're insane", "Don't remind me", "Shut your stupid gob! I can't stand the sound of your ugly voice!" In other words, a perfectly jolly chitchat.

Something he would usually be keen to avoid, if he'd been feeling himself; if every other thought didn't begin and end right back at the same place: the girl.

He was losing his last grip on sanity. Even more so than he already had. The fact that he considered that _at least something_, pointed to that fact! _Something new, right. Something to do._

It was too dark in the basement, just too dark, and the _Ooo, sorta spooky! Way cool!_ factor in that had pretty much died.

Eons ago, probably.

Right about then, he wouldn't have minded a friend so much. He was cold, everything hurt, and he really needed something to eat. He was having trouble stringing two coherent thoughts together. Which maybe wasn't such a bad thing, he started to think. Followed closely by: Why, why did he always have to make trouble with the natives? For goodness sake's, why!

Was it really so bad to feel something for the girl?

Yes, because everyone he'd ever felt something for, outside of the job, had ended up in a might sorrier state than they'd started out; they'd have been best served never to have known him.

He wondered, for a moment, if a lot of it was his fault; because he'd not died, and maybe the scheme of things had meant for him to have... Had Cat had the right idea, all along?


	4. Chapter 4

Emily, with nothing but her thoughts and the sound of another chilly winter wind blowing up a brew, sent out on the farm, to do _something_, felt quite sad, and yet not overly so. It was the strange sort of sadness that would have been very sad, sadder still, if she'd not been engaged in activity. And so she forged on, in her task. Cleaning out the cars, first, then getting 'round to mowing the front-, side- and back-yards. She checked the bird boxes were all safely secure in their trees, and cleared the drive of any large, obstructing branches or build up of twigs that might have the inclination to cause pain.

There were no animals on the farm - as yet - and they hadn't a tractor, so she trudged back inside and slipped on her gumboots for a walk around the back paddocks, thinking, perhaps, to catch sight of some of the local wildlife, or even, perhaps, an "invader", a rabbit, or a fox. She walked around the fence line, noting that the fences, thankfully, were in good nick, the singing wind stinging her face and rendering it pink and frosty - she imagined cupcakes, out in the backyard, in summer, taken under a large, shady tree - in that way, was able to clear her mind of other, more troublesome thoughts, was able to be at some measure of peace, though alone. Able to be at peace, within herself, for a couple of hours.

Inside, she vacuumed the rooms, dusted for what seemed like hours, scouting around for anything to take out to the trash, any little entry points the old, sturdy-built house might have had for unwelcome visitors of the house mouse persuasion. She took down cobwebs and spider webs, relocating their inhabitants to outside, in an empty jar from the kitchen, and wiped down dusty surfaces with a moist cloth.

In liu of washing the curtains, she took them down from their hangings and shook them out outside; hanging some of them for some time, weather permitting, to get some air at them, and opened windows to let air back into the house, the cold spiralling in after it gleefully, so that she had to dash to quickly fasten the door closed, though she almost didn't feel the cold a great menace now, had come to befriend it, greet it, now. _Good morning to you. You're still here, huh? I, too. I suppose that means you're stuck with me, and I with you._ There was some comfort in that, in the very least. And of the feel of the wind on her face, the sting of all things cold and chilly, winter's answer to summer in full bloom.

Happily, her days became orderly, setting their own routine. She even got 'round to writing up a list, of sorts, of what might be needed about the place; mostly of foodstuffs, and cleaning products, but of other things, too.

She made sandwiches, at eleven, for lunch, and set about helping with the arrangements of dinner, at five. Sat down with a book, after eight, and was in bed by nine-thirty, ten, at the latest. She was even able to sleep. And wasn't that a grand relief?

When she had nothing else to do, of a afternoon, she sat down at the kitchen table, in the moody light that had managed to sneak through the heavy coating of cloud hanging in the sky, and leafed through secondhand cookbooks and old magazines, looking for simple, but likeable biscuit recipes, even managing to find a few, and dig up some ingredients to get baking.

She didn't allow herself time for stray thoughts, for unnecessary intrusions to her frame of mind; he was being of use to the family and keeping out of trouble, that was all that mattered. That there may have been something she was ignoring, she didn't allow herself to dwell on. Not for a second.

With a little effort, and a little perseverance, it seemed to work. Not that she was keeping log. (Such thoughts were counterproductive.)

.

This whole business with Empathic sharing set Jarod's teeth on edge. Margaret and her little accomplice, de Berg, might have been great supporters of the method, but he was not so. It _did_ worry him. And it wasn't as though he'd failed to notice the negative feedback that was already working its charmingly insidious magic on the "enemy".

In de Berg's eyes, Lyle might have been just another Empath - "Merely out of curiosity, sugar and spice, what Class did you say you were? _Oh._ That's right - you didn't! To be certain, with a clear eye, I'd hazard it's well below a Six. Down in the grungier, murkier depths of the sport, then. In with the new, out with the dregs..." - but Jarod found it a little harder, as much as he detested the guy, to share that opinion. One of his friends was an Empath, himself, damn it! It felt... not so much disloyal as disrespectful, to Angelo, to Timmy, for Christ sake!, to take such an avenue when there were many, as effective, perfectly good alternatives just waiting for him to say, "I haven't forgotten you, baby!", and walk their way.

He couldn't help but noticing, either, that de Berg seemed to find some unsettling enjoyment out of making it worse for her "fellow" Empath. Whatever that might have been about, Jarod didn't care. They hadn't gone to all the effort that they had, over the past few weeks - planning and finally, implementing those plans - to have it all come to nought when they "accidentally" went too far and killed their playing piece.

He'd noticed, too, that his mother had been asking increasingly more about Kyle, turning the little things he'd told her about his brother back on him, the little things he'd told her in kindness, and that now stung, whenever mentioned. This wasn't how he'd intended his information to be used; he'd intended it as a comfort - a _small_ comfort, albeit - not as a weapon of hurt.

But Margaret had brought up the most peculiar little things he barely recalled having shared, and blown them up to larger-than-life importance.

_All of this business about angels, what had that been about?_

With a feeling very much like sinking, he recalled having mentioned it, yes. Apparently, and for reasons unknown, Kyle had believed in angels, and Jarod, not wanting to set his brother off in the wrong direction, had refrained from asking further questions on the subject.

He'd not thought it a mistake, up until now. The notion to lie, had never even crossed his mind, before Margaret had posed that question.

But Jarod didn't care about his mother's answers. If they would be sought, be found, at so dangerous a cost, he would not be a supporter of that! He was keen to see it end.

His only hindrance in that plan, was de Berg. Every opportunity that came her way, every chance to prove she was better than _him_, she seized with unnatural swiftness and a neat little sparkle in her eye.

The other Empath would be a problem, he thought.

"Do you know why you're going to say _yes_?" she tormented, now.

"Shit, let me guess, hon! Ah, shucks! I guess the Guessing Department's out on one o' those fancy team-building seminars, right now."

Lyle wasn't helping any, either. He might have gave it a rest with the smart mouth, but then, that would have meant cramping his style. No prizes for guessing what his problem was, Jarod thought bitterly; the guy was insane.

The sound of a loud slap shocked him out of his thoughts, momentarily, and he took some small measure of hope from the fact that de Berg seemed to be losing, at last, some of her edge. The top, as it were, had been knocked off her cool.

It was a start.

Following her little outburst, however, she walked smoothly out, returning with a laptop computer, a portable projector, and some viewing material she'd deemed "pleasant"; "a nice little interlude" to their discussions.

Pleasant wasn't a word Jarod would have associated with the snuff film; far-from-pleasant wouldn't even have covered it.

At lunch, Mo imparted quietly that de Berg was a "sick, sick individual", and Jarod, knowing full well that the woman was a Class Six Empath, didn't even care to rebuff him, to try to defend the woman. He agreed completely. What that said for their mother, who'd stood by with a blank expression in her eye, however, he carefully avoided raising that subject.

The one good thing about all of it, the singularly redeeming thing, was that the girl who'd died had finally been given a name, finally, had her identity restored to her.

He tried not to think that as "good" as that news was, as much as it restored the girl some measure of dignity, or worth, it also meant that, somewhere out there, her family would now have to face the fact that their daughter, their sister, would not be coming home. That hope would very shortly be shattered, scattered into ash on the wind.

The sound of the wind rattling at the windows, that night, had never sounded so brittle, so cold, quite so menacing. The horrors that Li Mei had known, that her family would soon come to know of, upended the balance he'd painstakingly strove to inject into his perspective, for a few sleepless hours, that night.

For Li Mei, the horror might have been over, but for her family, it was only just beginning.

Without being able to stop himself - he'd have done so, he knew, if he could - his mind returned to Kyle, to Margaret, to the one person, under this roof, capable of grasping the reality of what was about to hit Li Mei's parents very soon. In full colour, surround sound, and high definition clarity.

.

It wasn't until after they'd watched a couple good gory DSAs, had a little more fun riling de Berg up, add a dash of Margaret's favourite poison, and a few heavy-handed backhanders were thrown into the mix for extra colour, that Jarod even bothered to ask again. "Are you about ready to say _yes_, now?"

De Berg was grinning from ear-to-ear, and Jarod was about ready to walk out, sick of the woman beyond all hope. She really got off on this shit, didn't she? He wasn't sure, were the tables turned, if he'd even have been able to stomach looking her in the eye for that gleeful, disturbing glint, let alone sit at a table with her and eat a meal.

She wasn't what he'd imagine T-Corp Empaths to be like.

Perhaps it was because of Angelo - because he'd originally hailed from there, himself - but he'd always imagined them to be considerate; noble, even.

De Berg could easily passed for Lyle's twin sister, had she been older, and he'd not have batted an eyelid in protest.

She especially seemed to revel in the sight of a person covered in blood and bruises. It made him wonder what kind of an upbringing she'd had.

Shooting Lyle a look that he hoped would convey how utterly sick he was of de Berg's games, Jarod waited for him to say anything. Anything at all. He was really hoping he'd say yes, just to piss de Berg off, end the little fun-and-games carnival ride she seemed to be tripping on, in her sick, twisted mind.

Though he'd never admit to it, he was still having trouble believing his mom had organised all this. He'd always thought her a lover, not a fighter. Apparently, he'd thought wrong. Very wrong.

When someone crossed her, the claws really came out.

Lyle had obviously been aiming for a laugh, but it ended up a cough, instead. De Berg might have landed a few blows of her own in there, along the way. To Jarod's amazement and confusion, he smiled. "I think so, sir," he said, in his best Nebraskan accent. Which he did quite well, seeing that he'd grown up there, in his younger years. His eyes rolled to the top of his head, for a moment, the effect - with the white of his right eye stained red - a little disturbing, but hard to look away from, all the same. "Yessir!"

In the background, de Berg was laughing. Jarod couldn't remember when she'd started, but the sound put the hairs on the back of his neck on end. Raines, for all his creepy crap, had nothing on this chick! The chick was Granville scary!

With that thought, Jarod remembered that Margaret had asked by Kyle, about how he'd gone growing up, who he'd been placed with. To his credit, Jarod supposed - because he was very thankful for it, even though it was, in essence, a downright lie - he'd not once mentioned Granville, had just made out that he - or she, Jarod supposed - had had no bearing in Kyle's life, if they'd even ever existed. The boy did know how to lie. Not even a moment's hesitation. He'd also figured out he'd had a lot of other quite nasty shit with which to dazzle Margaret and de Berg. Why go down a path he needn't when he had all he needed to get the job done right in hand?

Jarod didn't know what Mo knew about Kyle's upbringing at the Centre, if he knew he'd been placed with Granville for four years before he'd finally been shovelled over to Raines, but, whatever he knew, he'd remained silent, just as he had for the entire proceedings. For that, Jarod had to admire him. He didn't open his trap and say unnecessary shit. He didn't bow down to his own inner demons, to his anger. If it wasn't worth saying, if it didn't get them anywhere good, if it only got them two steps back, rather than forward, he shut up.

Sometimes, Jarod wished he could pull off the same kind of cool that the kid seemed to possess.

Snapping out of his thoughts, he noticed that Margaret had come over. She was glaring at Lyle darkly. "Try anything funny, boy, and I'll put a bullet straight in the front of your head!" she breathed menacingly. "I see you. I see _right_ through you. I'd shoot you dead, and I'd be happy to have been of service to humanity. If anyone ever asked, I'd tell anyone who cared to know it, _anyone_, the joyous tale, _and I'd smile!_ That's how much you strikingly resemble vermin, to me, boy. I see an ant going about its day, as long as it stays outside and doesn't come into my house, I don't touch it. I step over it; I don't step _on_ it. You! I would step on you with tears of joy shining in my eyes!"

"I think you've made yourself very clear," Lyle replied, slurring almost all of the words. "What isn't clear... Mmm. I think that covers just about everything else. What say you hook me up with some more o' that, that stuff you like s'much. What's the name of it? I'm just startin' to get the hang of it. Think I might-" he coughed "think I might like it quite." He smiled, staring at his legs, instead of her, as though maybe the effort of lifting his head up was too much for him. "But you're right. I ain't that person no more. May be, I weren't ever. You got good eyes, babe. I gotta give you that."

He coughed up quite a bit of blood on himself. "Did I ever tell you I hate that colour? It's just so damn argumentative." He laughed, coughing a bit, and lifted his face, finally, to meet Margaret's eye. "So what happens now? I say _yes_, when do I get... I don't... like this... room... It's not... funny..." He frowned. "F-fun... I wanna go- I wanna go... with you..." He looked past her, to Jarod. "I don't like this room."

Margaret scowled, and nodded to her son. "Untie him. But watch him. He tries anything, shoot him. He's not that important. He's not worth shit. If he doesn't play ball, then he doesn't play at all." She favoured him with a quick smile, then turned on her heel and walked away. De Berg strolled over and they climbed the stairs, talking in low voices so that Jarod couldn't hear.

Mo stayed where he was, merely an observer.

At the top of the stairs, from the doorway, Margaret called back down to them. "Make sure he's presentable. Your father gets in today. We'll all have dinner together. Something nice, to celebrate."

"Your dad's b-birth... day's today..." Lyle said, struggling to keep his eyes open.

Jarod reached over to feel his pulse, replying simply, "No." He didn't know if Lyle heard him, but he supposed it was likely he hadn't. He looked like he'd finally had it. He still had a pulse, though, so he must have just gone unconscious, Jarod thought, glad to take his hand back.

He glanced at his younger brother. "Go on ahead," he said. "I'll wait here 'til he wakes up. Mom'll be wanting the help. I very much doubt de Berg's much of a hand in the kitchen. Her forte seems to be revelling in other people's misery." He winced, inwardly, only just remembering that the woman was an Empath, and felt like kicking himself.

Without a word, Mo walked away.

Jarod sighed and headed for the couch, taking a seat and wiping the blood off his hand on his pants. Rather them than the couch, he supposed. It was still a good couch.

He was just starting to relax when Lyle started blabbing to himself incoherently, and he frowned to make out what he was saying.

He was about to say, stupidly, "Say again," when he remembered: he was asleep; it probably wouldn't be a good thing to interrupt him. Empaths could be difficult; strange, at times. Where you might wake someone from a bad dream, you couldn't be so rash with an Empath. It all depended. If you caught them when they were in the middle of an episode, when the psychic streaming was upon them, and interrupted them then, it could lead to some nasty damage. He had a feeling, whatever it was wasn't anything pressing, probably just a jumble of old memories all running around in his head, getting mixed up. He decided, nonetheless, that Lyle had enough trouble to be worrying about without copping more negative feedback.

The bruise on his neck had been bad enough, but he'd been even less enthused to touch the ones on his wrists. Empaths bruised easily, if they weren't careful, but it wasn't the bruises Jarod was most worried about. Aside from any internal bleeding, he didn't even want to contemplate what sort of neurological damage might have been done. As if he'd not had to go through enough of that crap with Timmy, and then again, with Davy, he really needed more of it! Sure, he needed it like he needed a bullet in the head, he thought darkly, tempted, for a moment, to really feel angry at his mom.

Then he gave it up. He'd never realised, just not thought about it, before, how all of it might have damaged her, how damaged she might have been, inside. He'd just thought there'd be the obvious pain, the heartache, the disillusionment. He'd never stopped to think how she might have changed, how she might have adapted to survive. Or what she might have changed into. He'd just thought, _She's my mom. She'll always still be my mom._

Now, he thought, he was getting it back. His ignorance had teeth, and he'd just had a whole hunk of a bite taken out of him, and it stung. It bloody stung!

.

Charles was pleased, to see them all looking so well. He seemed especially pleased to see Emily and Ethan looking cheerful; he didn't know it was all a big act, solely for his benefit. Maybe even, he didn't want to know. But Jarod could tell. Could tell the way Emily lingered, when she hugged her dad, and the way Ethan didn't. He didn't have on any depressingly morbid expression, but he may as well have. He even said a few words, inconsequential things, really, but he may as well not have. Emily refrained from any long-winded monologues, as she sometimes did, and she smiled, as though to say, it was a big improvement on her behalf; how long it lasted, she didn't know.

Charles clapped him on the arm - no hugs for Jarod - and Mo got a hug, too, the same as the others. Margaret was last. She got a nod. Jarod could almost sense the resentment, the unfairness of it, simmering behind her eyes. Why the Hell didn't _she_ get a hug, too?

De Berg chose that moment to make her grand entrance, and Margaret explained who she was, and why she was with them. Charles didn't look happy, to have had such a thing kept from him - and _who_ had they chosen to try to persuade to help them - but he restrained himself from saying much. If Jarod had thought it safe, he wasn't in the arguing mood. The kid was alright. Merely asked of their progress, to which Margaret reported, not quite happily - but satisfied, at least - that it had all worked out.

Jarod bit his tongue and didn't elaborate; didn't say, "She scared me! She scared us all! I'm glad you're back, Daddy, because... she was very scary and I was very worried. But it'll all be okay now, because you're here." He knew he wasn't a little kid, anymore.

Besides, it was time to go and check on their new accomplice in crime, he reminded himself, and offered a brief, "It's good to see you," before making his way out of the room. He stopped outside the bathroom, when he came to it, and knocked on the door. "How are you?"

The door opened, but Lyle didn't rush out, all at once, to confront Charles about his crazy family. He hadn't tried to run away, either, Jarod noted, though he wasn't sure this was as encouraging sign as one might take it for. He was shaking far too much, for normal, and Jarod supposed that such a thing might hinder escape plans, a little.

"Have you spoken to my sister?" Lyle asked. "Is she... okay? She doesn't like to be told what to do, but the Chairman was pretty insistent. He wanted her taking some time off, too. If anything came up w-... with you, sh-she'd be the absolute first to know. How mad is she? Very, or not much, from what you can tell? Sh-she was telling Sydney what a jerk you were to leave us all hanging like that, without any clues, for so long. She thought you were doing it on purpose, because you were... angry at her, for reasons not stated. Have you spoken to her? How is she?" He stopped talking. Abruptly, as though he'd only just realised he'd been talking for some length, and it probably sounded fairly absurd, to Jarod. At least, coming from him.

"We haven't spoken," Jarod lied smoothly. "I wouldn't want to ruin her vacation. She rarely takes them. It would have been a bit of a shame, to get her in a bad mood even before I'd left my next clue."

"Is your father-?"

"Yes."

Lyle nodded, shakily, but Jarod interrupted.

"You're going to freak my sister out, shaking like that. You think you could give it a rest, for the time being? I'm not buying it, in case you're wondering."

He nodded again, though he seemed unable to keep still.

"No? You can't? You don't want you? Think it'll be funny to freak Em out, huh?"

"I have to..." Lyle began, stepping unsteadily back from the door and closing it, again.

"Oh, you have to think about it!" Jarod mocked, to the door. "You do that. Give it some real serious thought." He was being unfair, but he couldn't seem to help himself. Of course it would have been a little difficult, after being isolated for so long, for a whole week, with very little outside input, with everything pre-decided for you by a Class Six Empath who could easily block you from Reading everyone in the room, not to mention within a mile radius of it, the mice in the field, probably, even.

It would have felt strange, suddenly. Off kilter.

He was almost tempted to go back, to make some snappy retort. "I thought you were used to this shit! What, with being Noah and all!" Just to heckle the guy a little. He knew he wasn't Noah, Noah was dead. But he would have enjoyed it, all the same.

He decided to go easy on the asshole act, and left the guy alone. He didn't like the way he'd been talking so freely; the association he'd suddenly leapt upon: they were friends now, right? Wasn't that right? Why else would he have thought it okay to ask so many questions - questions about Miss Parker, especially - otherwise?

In daylight, his eye looked worse than it had, in the basement, the bruise on his neck, a little more outstanding. Other than that, and being a bit pale, he seemed like he was alive, Jarod thought. For the moment. He hadn't particularly cared for his mother's plan - nor for when she'd told him, absurdly, out of the blue, that she'd used to tell Emily she had an angel watching over her, but, no, she'd never told Kyle that - but he'd been moderately pleased to see it end, or, at least, the first phase of it come to a close.

Now, he wondered about what his mother had said. Why hadn't she told Kyle the same thing she'd told Emily? He assumed, on further thought, that it was due to the timing. The twins hadn't been born, yet, when Kyle had been taken. It had been very shortly after, though. Not that Kyle would have remembered, anyway, as a one-year-old who'd been traumatically been separated from his parents and little brother.

He wondered why she hadn't told him the same thing, though. Why had she told his sister, and not him? Did she think, that he, as a boy, wouldn't want to hear things like that, or had she still been thinking that Kyle's abduction must have been perpetrated by some random lunatic, on a whim? That it hadn't been part of a larger, much grander scheme? Perhaps that was why they'd been able to snatch him, so long after Kyle had been taken from them. Perhaps she honestly had put away her fear, for the day. And only after he'd been taken, too, had she taken it out, turned it over in her hand, and reexamined it, afresh. Only then had she truly believed, someone was out to get them.

In the kitchen, he approached Emily and asked, "Do you believe in angels, Em?"

Frowning, she filled a mug with coffee for him, and passed it to him, answering easily, "No. Why do you ask? I don't believe in that sort of thing. I believe that all living things are connected by the energy of life; that we're all apart of God, if you will. There is no such thing as angels. People would argue, 'But there have been visionaries, have there not?' But I don't know about things like that. Were I to conduct some research into it, and find it mildly plausible..." She shrugged. "Even so, that doesn't mean I believe these so-called visionaries to have been touched by some divine, angelic wisdom. As I say, I don't believe in that theory."

Jarod didn't say, "You've never told me this before", and she didn't ask what he thought, what his beliefs were. He took his coffee, with a quick thanks, and left to find Charles. To catch up. Neither did he ask, "Why do you think it is that Miss Parker's twin went to Heaven, but Catherine didn't?" It was a question for Margaret, not his sister. Margaret knew the truth, now; Emily didn't. He wasn't keen to start more trouble for himself; or for her, the resident ex-journo.

.

At dinner, everyone acted their part. Save for the odd _What's it to you?_ look from de Berg, though he'd not spoken, nobody asked any complicated questions of Lyle. They left him alone. Even Emily didn't launch into a spiel, as Jarod had half expected. She didn't spare him any pity-filled glances, either. And, thankfully to see, he'd given it a rest with the charade of being so unwell.

It was obvious, though, under the kitchen's brightly jarring lights, that he'd lost some weight, and was a little more pale than seemly, for someone like him, that his eye didn't look at all cute, but all that went overlooked. Needless to say, such things happened all the time. People changed diets, went on fad diets, caught the cold, or some other bug, knocked themselves around doing something stupid, or just doing too much, got heart problems, took blood thinners. It happened all the time. It was a regular enough occurrence. There might have been nothing out of the ordinary, under any other circumstances.

Jarod didn't waste his time analysing it. Instead, he took some time to look de Berg over, but she seemed fine. No visible negative feedback; still in the same mood, as always. Nothing drastically different.

The dinner was nice, though, he thought. Margaret, Mo, and Emily had really put in a good effort. There was even dessert, which was declined by Charles and Lyle.

"Why not?" Emily asked Charles. "I made it. It's cheesecake. I spent ages on it."

"I can see that," Charles replied. "And it looks like you've done a very good job, Emily. Well done. But I'm just not that hungry." He didn't point out that it was a baked cheesecake, not the popular, regular set-in-the-fridge sort. It was beside the point. He wasn't hungry, or else, he wasn't in the dessert mood.

Emily didn't bother asking Lyle what his issue was; didn't bother saying, "Weren't your grandparents German? I bet your Grandma made baked cheesecake all the time. What's your issue? Just because I made it, is that it! So you think it's alright to turn your nose up at it, you jerk!" In fact, she didn't even look at him. Hadn't done so much as twice all evening.

Jarod wondered if she wasn't still pissed off with him for the snob, earlier in the week. For not sticking with her, when she'd been trying to be nice; be a friend. He was glad, though, that she didn't press the issue; glad that she didn't decide she might try again, might try to mend those burnt bridges. They weren't quite enemies anymore, right? He was very glad she kept quiet; or else the thought was merely yet to strike her. He hoped, were that the case, that it would be long after Lyle had left. He was tired of her efforts to befriend the maniac; tired of having to bite his tongue not to yell at her and ask why she was being so selfish, why she was acting so without regard for the rest of them; why the lunatic got special treatment, when they got treated like crap? He didn't want to _hurt_ her, anymore than was called for, anymore than was strictly a necessity: Get with the program, girl. Get with reality, for darn sake!

.

Passing the bathroom, later in the evening, Jarod didn't stop to ask how he was when he heard someone - obviously Lyle - being sick. It could happen, when you didn't eat for some time. He didn't say, "You shouldn't have tried so hard to look like everything was okay; to please my mom or dad." Personally, he couldn't give two stuffs what he'd done, nor that it hadn't worked out in his favour. Maybe, a small part of him would always be pissed off, at the guy; maybe, a small part of him would always wish him dead.

It couldn't be helped, he thought to himself. The guy had brought it on himself, after all, by being such a murderous lunatic.

He hoped it gave him something to think about, though. Hoped it made him stop and think: the time when he could get whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted, was over. He'd just have to stick it out and live with it, or kill himself.

Either way, Jarod wasn't fussed. The world would be a better place without the loony; that, he was certain of. His corner of the world, that much more so.


	5. Chapter 5

**Additional Disclaimer** I don't own the songs _Bewitched_ or _Time_, their lyrics or music.

.

Moving carefully through the darkened room, mindful of her step, Emily drew closer to the bed. She didn't want to trip, she could hurt herself. Or worse, make a right fool of herself, or alarm the others of her whereabouts. Clumsy person! Snap! Emily! Where? Snap! That's where!

She sat down softly on the edge of the mattress, and swept back her hair, depositing of it over her shoulder, and leant down quietly, her puffy coat rustling. She breathed in his ear, "I know you're not sleeping." And unless he slept with his eyes open, locked in a blank stare with the ceiling, she was fairly certain her diagnosis was correct. She doubted it, quite a bit.

"Top notch investigative prowess, there, Lois," he murmured back, his voice just as emotionless as the look in his eye, his gaze not straying for even a millisecond from the ceiling.

"I know. It kinda makes you crazy, doesn't it? Crazy jealous!" A smile curved her mouth, silently, hard to make out in the dimness of the room, amongst all of the fuzzy, colourless features, near and far.

"How are you feeling?" she added. It seemed to be the way.

"I'm trying not to," came his muted reply.

"You're talking, at least. That's a start," she observed.

"You might say that."

For a long handful of moments, all she could hear was the sound of his breathing, studiously regular, like clockwork, as though, he, too, was listening, just to be sure.

"Hey!" Out, she didn't know why she'd said it, or what she was intending on saying next. Awkwardly, she struggled to search for something to add, for something to keep it from hanging, oddly, in the almost silence.

"Hey..." he returned, without her abrupt enthusiasm. "You're a bright, young thing. You can make it back to the door, on your own. If you don't mind, I'd like to sl..." A sharp, uneven breath. "...sleep..." He sat up, too quickly, and started coughing.

The sound hurt her ears; his sudden nearness hurt her more. She swore she could almost feel his blundering, not-so-subtle invasion of her personal bubble. Smack! Take that and nick off! My bubble's better than your bubble!

She pushed the feeling away. She really couldn't recall why she'd come, now. She sat, with nothing else to do, and watched him, hunched over, like something deformed.

Perhaps that was how he felt, she thought, deformed. A traitor. Unworthy of anything but this pain.

Though the thought had been her own, she found it hard to believe, hardly plausible. He just wasn't that sort of person, was he? If experience had told her anything, it was that.

"Why are you sitting there like a dummy?" he managed to rasp, finally, when the coughing had subsided enough for him to draw an even breath again. "Get out!"

"Are you cold?" she asked. Had meant to say, "I couldn't sleep, either," but had thought it too personal, none of his business, frankly speaking. Had changed her mind. Before she'd even knew it, words had spilled out.

Everybody asked each other such questions. They were as meaningless as they were substantial, in their own way; as without relation as people always seemed to seize on some connection hidden deep within their syllables. You: Are _you_ cold? How are _you_? I'm here for _you_.

No reply came. She imagined he thought he'd succeed in warding her off that way, by giving her the silent treatment. It wouldn't work, she conceded; she'd come for a reason.

Leaning forward suddenly, half frightened, in the dark, half clumsy, it wasn't even funny, she manoeuvred herself fully onto the mattress - he'd obviously figured she would leave, if he said nothing - and settled back down, straddling him.

He didn't push her away, or even flinch.

She was surprised. For about two seconds, until he opened his mouth.

"Is this the part where you tell me you've secretly a fetish for drinking people's blood and turn vamp?"

She couldn't keep from replying, sarcastically, "You mean: Is this the part where I tell you you're an idiot and clobber you upside the head?"

"You tell me."

In reply, she bent down and pressed her lips to his.

"Hey!" he said, pushing her away, just far enough. "You're not my type."

"No harm done then," she replied, easily, and, in a flash, dropped her mouth to his, once more. When he wasn't blathering nonsensically, or making some smart mouth diatribe; when they were just like this, she found her hatred for him dissolving, fractionally. She'd never thought of him as warm in a comforting way before, but now, kissing him, it occurred to her that he was capable of possessing that kind of warmth, if he wished to; the energy around him wasn't always charged to drive other people off the deep end.

He gently pushed her off him again. "I'm not your Barbie doll, Emily," he told her, starting to become annoyed.

She smiled. "Ken doll," she corrected. "And yes you are!"

He turned his head away from her, predicting her next move with near phenomenal accuracy, she thought sarcastically - such a clever Empath - and bent down, all the same, to hiss in his ear, "You owe me this!" And, just to shut him up from making any clever comments back, and perhaps a tiny bit just because she could, she bit his ear.

"You vampire," he muttered anyway, as though hurt.

"You know it's true," she replied, stifling a growl. "I can't look at other men, because of you. In the back of my head, I'm always just _waiting_ for something to go wrong! Like I think they're all gonna go crazy, like you! I hate you for that!"

He rolled his eyes, turning to meet her gaze. "Your problem, not mine. You're crazy. Don't you see that? Crazy chick!"

She scowled and fumbled for the zipper on her jacket, yanking it down harshly, the sound making her wince. In the quiet room, in the middle of the night, it sounded ridiculously loud.

"Oh please!"

She felt around for his hand, grabbing it, and shoved it up under her jumper and blouse, resting his palm on her belly with a shiver. God, even her hands weren't that cold! And he was the one accusing her of vamping out! "I'm warm! I'm soft! What's not to love! I won't make a habit of it, believe you me! You make me want to vomit!"

He slid his hand across her belly, around to her side, making her shiver again, distracting her from thinking straight, stopping her from putting two and two together at the sight of his smile.

She slapped his hand away, frightened.

"Didn't know you were ticklish, Russell," he jibed, a smile in his voice. "It's sorta cute."

"Don't!" she snapped.

He smiled a bit more, his eyes brightening at the challenge.

"I'll hit you!" she warned.

"Might like that," he returned.

"I'll scream!"

"Might like that, too."

"Pervert!"

He laughed humourously. "Excuse me, but am I the one skulking around in the dark and sneaking into other people's rooms to proposition them!"

"I'm classier than you," she agreed.

He laughed again.

She didn't want to think about what that sound did to her insides. _She_ had made _him_ laugh. She'd done that! Twice! She struggled to focus her thoughts, to keep from smiling stupidly, or giggling like an idiot. Big whoop! She bet it was all just a show. He didn't find her funny at all. He was just practised in the art, and she was a sucker.

Likely, right now, if he was laughing at all, it was because she'd played right into his hands, like the good little (stupid) girl she was! _Empath!_ she reminded herself. Hadn't Jarod warned her about this?

"Won't you say _yes_? You said _yes_ to my mom. At least this will be enjoyable."

He refrained from rolling his eyes. "For whom? You or I? My kind of enjoyable isn't your kind of enjoyable, I'm afraid you'll find."

"I dunno. Can't you just... pretend?" she shot back.

"No," he replied, offended.

"Yes you can!" she rebuffed. "You're murdering the mood!"

His eyes widened. "Oh! Good."

"Not good!" she scowled. "Why are you being so mean?"

"Why are you being so... come on-y?" he returned.

"Maybe I'm just depraved, you illiterate freak," she replied casually. "Isn't that what you already think of me?"

"Maybe you're just insane," he countered. "I don't like the girls I bang stealing my limelight."

She made a face. "What is that, one of your sister's words? _Bang_."

He made one back at her. "No."

"Bet it is!"

"Go away! I don't like you anymore!"

"Uh-hhh!" She laughed. "You didn't like me in the first place!"

"That's true," he admitted. "Still don't, to be honest. Amscray, puny human!"

She aimed a punch at his shoulder.

He coughed. "Oh, okay," he said, finally. "We're not so different, after all. Nevertheless, sugar, I don't like playing submissive."

"Deal with it!" she snapped.

"Dare I say, 'Or what?'?"

She punched him in the shoulder again. "Silence, puny human!"

He laughed, without much enthusiasm. "Don't you have somewhere to be, darlin'? In bed, maybe? Sleepin'!"

"Can't sleep, won't sleep, don't _want_ to sleep!"

He started to hum _Bewitched_.

"Hmm-hmm-hmm, what_ever_!" she snapped.

"_...Couldn't sleep, and wouldn't sleep, then love came and told me, I shouldn't sleep. Bewitched, bothered, and bewildered, am I..._"

She grinned, waving her finger in a circle. "Abracadabra, by the light of the cloudy night, hear my will and heed my might. Open your foolish eyes, and nobody dies. See I'm not kidding, and do my _bidding_!"

He nodded knowledgeably. "Ah, see, I had you wrong all along. You're not a vampiress, you're a she-witch!"

She punched him in the shoulder. "It's dead now! All I want to do, now, is _strangle you to death_!" She sniffed, putting on a sad face.

"Oh dear, I'm so sorry! Please believe me." He sat up, pushing her back from him, then pulled her back again, resting his hands on her upper arms. "Do you want me to walk you to your room? I promise, I'll be quiet as a mouse. It's just, it looks awf'lly dark and scary, over there. You wouldn't want to go off alone. What if a monster jumped out of the shadows and ate you all up!"

"Patronising freak!" she snapped.

He smiled, with suddenly sharp teeth. "Hello, little girl," he said, in what might have been quite pleasant a voice if it hadn't sounded so much like a growl.

Emily stayed deadly still. Part of her wanted to ask, "Are you for real?", whilst the other part just wanted to run like Hell! She supposed this was what Jarod had meant when he'd said _Reaper_. "Do you suck the life out of people?" she asked stupidly, before logic could tell her just _how_ stupid it was.

"Can do," he replied, in that same eerily growl-like voice.

"I guess that comes factory standard, right," she replied. "Creepy-as-crap voice. Check!"

He put a hand up to stroke her cheek.

"Creepy-as-crap claws," she added, with slightly less bravado. "Check." Some foolhardy compulsion made her lean in closer, her fingers going to his face. "Your eyes are different."

"No shit, Goldilocks!"

She grinned. "That sounds really stupid, when you say it in that voice."

"I was under the impression it sounded really stupid all the time, am I wrong?"

She shook her head, forgetting that she was probably supposed to be afraid, and took her hand from his face. "Have you?"

"Have I what, little girl?"

"Sucked the life out of anyone?"

"Sure. Loads of times. Lost count, it's been that many times."

She nodded, grinning. "Oh, but I believe you! When you say it like that, I can't help but fall victim to my own, inner gullibility, like some crazy, insane fool!"

"Are you having me on?" he asked.

"No. Of course not," she replied. "I've still got my clothes on. You didn't want me to have you on."

He put a hand to his head, half smiling in exasperation. "Please, just go," he asked her.

She pretended she wasn't so bright, "I'll be scared on my own, out there in the darkness. You're a big scary monster. Say you'll stay with me. Be my protector. I won't make fun of your funny claws, or your funny voice, at all. Promise is a promise is a promise."

He patted her nose. "Not tonight, little girl."

She scowled, huffing. "Why do I bother?" she replied, and lurched forward suddenly, planting her lips on his, and her hand on his leg. She wasn't taking no for an answer, Goddamn it! Here she was, trying to do something nice to him, and lying through her teeth, and all he could do, in return, was start another argument. Why _did_ she bother? She'd have been better off to have left him on his own to wallow in his own loathing and self-pity - he'd have been happier, for it, by all accounts, and she would have, too!

She didn't know why she always had to go and be a damn fool!

Because she felt lonely, herself, because she thought it would make her feel better, to make someone else who was also lonely feel better, less alone. Because she hated herself, just a little bit, for turning the other cheek, for surrendering to the dominant power, to the majority. Because she really couldn't explain it, at all, but she felt drawn to the fruitcake, and had begun to doubt her own sanity, for it.

She picked up one of his hands and rested it in the small of her back, shuffling closer to him so that he wouldn't just be able to tune her out so easily, as though she wasn't there; so that he'd be able to feel her, pressed close to him, warm, solid, very real.

She couldn't understand his opposition, why he didn't want her. Surely any other man would have been happy to take her, then and there. She knew she wasn't a bad looking girl. So maybe she was a little old, for his tastes, and maybe she wasn't Asian, and her hair was red, instead of black, but she still had all the curves, all the soft, squishy bits guys liked.

Was it just because he wasn't feeling well, or was it something wrong in his head. Didn't he find women attractive unless they filed categorically under the one mould? Then what of his unhealthy liking for his twin sister, Miss Parker? She wasn't Asian. Her hair wasn't even black, just dark brown. Her eyes were blue!

She suppressed a sigh, pulling away, breaking the kiss. Maybe it was just her; maybe he found her neediness off-putting, maybe he thought the only reason she was even looking at him was because, shit, they were both stuck in the same shit, here, the same crappy game that repeated itself over and over and seemed to sway some power over them that said, "No, you can't have relationships with regular people, people outside of the game. You'll get them killed. Is that what you want?" Maybe he didn't feel a single scrap of comradery, or defiance, or any of it. Why couldn't they have this one thing, this one time? They were both stuck on the same ever-revolving wheel of doom. Why couldn't they say, "Fuck you! You don't rule my life!", just once. It wasn't as though they'd be breaking the rules any more than they would be if they were to meet someone on the street, like the looks of them, and say, "Hey, come on. How about it?"

He sighed, putting away the teeth and the claws and the Reaper eyes. "We're not on the same side here, hon. Perhaps if we were, things would be different. Perhaps then, I _could pretend_."

She hated that her voice came out so much like she'd been ripped off, but there was no swallowing her words, once they were out. "Yes, we _are_! You're helping us now! Or did you just decide you'd spin us some lie and we wouldn't know any different?" Tears stung her eyes, without her meaning for them to. She felt like a fool. A fucking fool.

He put a hand on her arm. "I don't think you're a fool, I just... I just don't agree with your assessment of the situation. It's not so bad. Someone will come along."

"Even if they _did_, and I was okay with them, I couldn't let them stay!" she all but yelled back at him, tears running down her face. "I couldn't even get started with them!" she cried. "How would I feel if anything ever happened to them? If they got hurt - or died?" She scrunched up her face. "Can't you even _pretend_ you're human, for two _fucking seconds_!" she sobbed, the crushing weight finally bearing down on her and bowling her completely flat. She dropped her shoulders, and put her head down, letting her hair fall down about her face, sobbing silently. She didn't even care anymore; she just didn't care.

"Hey. Come on. What did I tell you? It's not that bad. You're just feeling down, right now. Everything seems ten times worse than it was yesterday. I get it." He lifted her face with a hand, tilting his head to catch her eye. "I can pretend, once in a while."

She didn't want to look at him. She kept looking away, every time he'd catch her eye.

"Hey, you. Cheer up. Don't you know it's not the end of the world?" He smiled, hoping it might help.

She still refused to look at him.

"Look... You just think this is what you want, at this moment, because... because you're feeling really shitty, really bloody down. But when things start to look up again, you'll be kicking yourself for it, trust me."

She gave a dark, breathy laugh.

He smiled a bit more. "It's true."

When she finally looked him in the eye, her face was scrunched up into a scowl and the gleam in her own eye could have been murderous. "You're a fucking arsehole! You just think about yourself and no-one else! I was right! You-" She wiped her nose on the back of her hand. Before she could go on, he'd leant closer and kissed her.

She pushed him away from her forcefully, fisting up her hands and beating him on the arms. "Mmm. I hate you! I don't want you anymore. Don't touch me or I'll puke on you!"

He sighed, tossing his chin in the direction of the door. "Off you go then. Off to bed."

She sniffed, not looking at him.

"Off you pop."

_Hop. Off you hop_, she thought, and looked up suddenly, meeting his eye. "I don't want to go! I want to stay here with you!"

"Oh no. No, no," he told her. "You don't stay the night in the monster's den. It'll eat you, if you do. I'm sorry, but I don't think your mother would take very kindly to me, if I did that. Neither would your father or your brothers, I'm afraid to say. There's not going to be another daughter, or another sister, who'll come along to replace you, if you end up dead, kaput. You'll just be dead and that'll be that, Emily."

She punched him in the leg. "I'm not going."

"Go."

"'I'm not,' I said."

He sighed again, reaching over to help her get her coat. She wasn't about to sleep with the thing on, was she? It would be very uncomfortable.

She hit his hand away.

"No... I'm... Take that thing off, will you. If you're staying, I don't want to hear it making that noise all night. It'll drive me crazy."

She sniffed, and pulled off her coat, folding it up neatly and leaning over the side of the bed to place it on the floor, it, all the while, rustling loudly whenever it was folded or set down. She rubbed her left cheek with a hand, as though irritably, or to get some feeling back into it.

He reached over and felt it. Her face felt warm, nothing wrong with it, aside from the tears.

She pushed his hand away and pulled her sleeve up to wipe her face semi-dry. Only, when she started to wipe her tears away, more decided to come.

He sighed, putting his arms out, suddenly. "Oh, come here. Give me a hug. You're depressing me with all those tears. What are they for, huh? Silly thing, you." He moved closer and put his arm around her, drawing her closer. "Come on, that's enough. You'll give yourself a headache."

She sniffed, choking on what was meant to be a laugh, and cried harder. Just felt really shitty, in the worst way. Like it would never go away. Maybe she had been, for days, but she'd just been ignoring it.

She rested her head on his shoulder, just glad of the warmth, of the arms holding her. It wasn't much, but it was enough. "I know I can be childish, but I'm sorry. I hate it. I want to be... I wish you could see me as a woman, not just a child. It's my own fault, I know, but I-"

"Children are just as important as adults, darlin'," he told her gently.

She sniffed. "But I'm not a child!"

"I know that. I do know. It's not you, as overbearing as you can sometimes be."

She sniffed. "Sometimes!" More like all the time, she thought, stricken. Her throat felt too tight.

He stroked her hair. "You're not so bad, you know. You like to make out that you are- I should say, you do it an awful lot. I don't know if you particularly enjoy it or not, but it's got to stop. You know that as well as I do, don't you. You've got to give yourself a chance."

"I can't believe it if it's just me thinking it!" she replied, upset. "I want- I want someone else to think it, too. I want someone else to say it."

"Oh, I see. So that's all, is it? You! You funny thing! We all want that, at times, but that doesn't mean we shouldn't believe in ourselves even when we're the only one. You've never hurt anyone; you've never killed anyone. I mean, what have you got to... What's holding you back? Why are there these constant doubts? You're a good person."

She took a deep breath. "I'm alone," she added, quietly.

"Oh, no you are not. Where are you getting these ideas from, hey? You're not alone, you just... Sometimes, you find it hard to see how not alone you are. Don't punish yourself like that. There's no need. And if you ever feel alone, you know you can always... I was going to say you can always go out and meet some people, just, you know, to chat, whatever, but you're so negative about everything, about the world and... life, that, for you, to do that, it would really kill any enjoyment that you might get out of it, to begin with. _You've got to do something about that!_ I'm not joking." He shook his head, leaning away from her.

She made a face. She didn't want him to stop hugging her. She was in a crappy mood. She just wanted to be held by someone. She shook her head, trying to keep from crying again. "I don't want a friend. I don't _just_ want a friend. I want a friend who can... who can love me like more than just a friend."

Lyle sighed. "I'm with you there, honey. My sister, the same thing. Unfortunately, the poor thing, it just never works out for her."

Emily frowned at him. "I'm not your sister. Why... why are you bringing her up now? I'm talking about me and you're just... You just think, _Let her go on_. You don't want to contribute anything, in return. You just want everyone to think you're this... this inhuman thing!"

"Well, I'm sorry if that's the impression you got, Emily, but it's just not true."

"Yes it is!"

"Rubbish."

"Why are you lying?"

"Of course I don't think I'm not human, silly billy! How could I? I am human. I just don't think I'm a particular sparkling example of one, which would be true, no?" He pointed at her. "You're thinking it, too. Don't deny it. Everybody thinks it." He nodded. "Because it's true. You know it, hon. You know it."

"You must have a tiny bit of good human left in you!" she argued. "You're always encouraging me to see- to see that I'm a good person and that I shouldn't feel down about - stuff!"

"You are a good person, and you shouldn't feel down about _that_. Plenty of other stuff to feel down about, if you're in the market, hon."

She flashed him a glare. "I'm sick of you treating me like I'm your Goddamn sister!" she snapped. "You treat me like I'm your kid sister, but you won't treat Miss Parker like she's even related to you! And when you do, it's only to take advantage of the fact and presume some unseemly closeness with her! What is wrong with you in the head?"

"Oh, there's one in every dozen. There is a lot wrong with me, sweetheart. A heck of a lot."

Her eyes darkened. "If you know it, then why don't you _do_ something about it?"

"Do what, for instance?" he asked. "Kill myself?"

She stared at him, appalled. "What is it with you and killing? For fuck's sake! No, not kill yourself, you idiot! You big fucking idiot! Believe in yourself! You know the difference between right and wrong! I can see that you do, and don't you say I don't see shit - because I do! I can see it. And you can, too. You _can_. You just don't believe in yourself. And you don't _want_ to. You want the excuse. Well that's not on! Me, now, _I'm_ telling you - _that's not on!_ Do you hear me?"

He sighed. "I'm fairly certain half the house heard you, at that volume."

She made a face, stabbing him in the chest with a finger. "Stop dodging the issue!"

He sighed again. "Are we done? Can I get some sleep now?"

She crossed her arms, glaring at him. He wasn't bloody taking her seriously, was he? He was being blasé - again! Next, he'd start some other dumb argument, if she even tried pushing the issue. _He_ was the child - not her! God, she'd thought she had problems! How wrong she'd been! She had a couple of areas she was lacking in. Confidence, for instance. But he was completely off the planet in his thinking! _Way_ out of orbit of reality!

"Possibly?"

She narrowed her eyes on him. "I'll be watching you!"

"Such a comforting thought," he told her, patting her leg. "Get some rest, see how you feel in the morning." He laughed. "Well, more in the morning that just now. How's that sound? It feasible?"

She shook her head.

"All right," he nodded. "Okay. Goodnight, then. You're killing me. Enough with the eyes, girly. Be good. Time for bed."

She made a face, and yanked on the blankets, pulling a corner of them up. She didn't say _goodnight_, she just lay down with a disagreeable look on her face and turned away from him. She was pissed off.

What was new?

.

"You look fashionably bedraggled," Emily told him, in the morning, as he was struggling to even open his eyes. The light hurt his head.

"Don't you mean _half-dead_?" he asked, wincing.

"Don't I?" She pretended to give it some thought. "I suppose I do, on second thoughts. Someone's on the ball, this morning. Good catch."

Looking irritable, he asked, "What time is it?"

"Seven-thirty, about. Why do you ask? It's time to get up, lazy bones!"

"Are you kidding?" he mumbled. "I'm going back to sleep."

She stared at him. "Get up, lazy person!" she snapped. "I was going to make you some coffee."

"I don't drink coffee," he merely replied, sleepily.

She prodded him in the arm with a finger, eliciting a wince.

"Please don't do that, unless you wish me to turf you out the door this instant," he said.

"Then get up and turf me out!" she challenged, widening her eyes.

"Couldn't be bothered," he mumbled back, closing his eyes.

"You're a lazy ass!" she snapped, scowling. "Sleeping in is bad for you, you know! Too much beauty sleep makes you ugly!"

"Sure thing, Lady Avon," he murmured.

She punched him in the arm, glaring at him.

"Why is the Avon lady hitting me?" he muttered, opening his eyes. "What did I ever do to her?"

"Wake up, you lazy, no-good-for-nothing dirtbag!"

"Overbearing, much?" he asked, trying for at least a touch of sarcasm.

"I want to go for a walk," she spelt out for him.

"Does it look like I'm holding you down?"

"I want you to come with me!" she snapped.

"No thanks, Dot; I think I'll pass. Red's not your colour."

She fixed him with a peeved expression. "Come with me, moron!"

"Go away."

She grabbed his arm, pulling on it. "I said, 'Come with me!'"

"Go away!" he moaned, sounding like he was either about to start ripping his hair out, or bawling. Why was she harassing him, anyway? Wasn't that what she had a family for? Or Trudy? Trudy would really love it. She'd be over the moon. "Go wake Trudy up and take her," he told her, detaching her hand from his arm.

"I don't want to take Trudy," she snapped. "She makes my skin crawl. I want to take you!"

He met her eye, pointedly. "I don't make your skin crawl, darling?"

She glared, obstinately. "Yes. But you're a guy. There's a difference."

"Because girls who like other girls freak you out, or because you're disappointed Trudy comes over a little too strongly as a whack job and you'd expected... more, of your own gender. A little more love and understanding?"

"Because she makes my skin crawl and I don't like her!" she snapped, angrily. "Come with me!"

"Do I have to? Do I really, really have to?"

"Yes!"

"You're incredibly mean."

"I'm glad to hear you think so. Not such a wuss now, huh?"

He sat up and punched her in the arm back.

A look of hurt crossed her face.

"It's not so fun, when you're on the receiving end, is it?" he said.

"I didn't punch you that hard!" she retorted.

"I'm a guy. That's how we punch."

She scoffed. "Sexist!"

"Much!"

She threw him a dirty look, holding her shoulder, and got off the bed, stepping off her jacket and shaking it out before she pulled it on and zipped it up. "Get your lazy arse up! You're coming with me!"

He rolled his eyes and got up, looking around for something to wear on his feet. "Go get your shoes," he told her. "You're not going out there in bare feet. It's too frigging cold. They'll fall right off and run away."

She laughed, putting a hand over her mouth. Other people were trying to sleep. "Not buying it for a second!" she snapped. "And you're not funny!" She fled, to the door, and disappeared out into the hall.

He sat down on the bed, heavily, suppressing a sigh. At least he'd have a couple of minutes peace, he thought.

.

Outside, the ground was covered in frost. Underneath their shoes, the grass crackled, pale as stained grass, and crumpled, trampled into the ground.

Emily sighed heavily, taking a deep breath, and smiled at him. When he didn't respond with a smile of his own, she twitched her nose. "Aren't you happy to be out of that yucky basement? Smile, stupid!"

"No thank you," he said, refraining from calling her Samantha.

"Prude!" she snapped. "Frigid weirdo!"

He scratched his neck, wincing slightly. "It's a farm. There's grass. So what? I've seen farms before. I've even seen _grass_ before, shock-horror! What's the big deal!"

She glared at him. "Creep," she muttered, and set off ahead.

He walked after her, sighing, secretly relieved she'd not called him out. To her, he was a city person; city people got scared, when they saw too much grass, and not enough concrete and asphalt.

Aside from grass, there were trees, as well. Over to one side of the property, there was what looked like a little wood. Though he looked, he couldn't make out any sign of a fence line. The property must have been quite extensive. All in all, it was quite encouraging. The further from the line of fire of any surrounding farms, the further from the fallout of the chemicals they might have used, so much the better for her, he thought.

Though she'd not so much as brought it up once, he hadn't failed to notice that she was asthmatic. She avoided wearing any strong perfumes, or using it in the wash, on her clothes, and the only concession she seemed to have made, to this rule, was the lavender shampoo she used. Not an artificial lavender fragrance, actual real lavender, and not overbearingly strong; perhaps French lavender.

They trudged through the crackling grass as it got stuck into the daily routine of losing its pale sheen as the ice melted from it, ever so slightly, and the crackling subsided, little by little, with the sun rising and the air warming. They must only have been walking for about fifteen minutes, twenty at tops - it was obviously _quite_ a sizable property - when Emily stopped and changed direction, heading for the trees. "You know, if you make shelter belts in between strips of crop, stuff grows better," she suddenly brought up. "For one," she counted on her fingers, "there's less wind, less exposure to the harsher elements, and for another, there's shade, when it's needed. And it keeps the soil together better, too."

"More to the point, darlin', do you know where we're going, even?"

"_I_ do!" she told him. "You, will just have to wait and see."

"Oh glee," he muttered sarcastically, following her through the trees. "Did you know it's much better to selectively harvest trees, rather than clear fell them all in one go; to thin the forest, but not destroy it, completely? 'Forest farming,' it's called. You take some of the trees away - cut them down, take them away, off you go - and it allows for new trees to come up; for recruitment from the trees that are already there. The parent trees won't try to outgrow the baby trees, you see, whereas, in a traditional plantation, who knows where the seeds come from, or if they're even related."

She made a face. "Are you sure that's true?"

"Very much so."

She rolled her eyes to the side, chewing on that one. After a moment, she glanced sideways at one of the trees. "Is that true?" she asked it.

He laughed, smiling at her - asking a tree something like that! - and bit his lip. "I don't think you speak Tree. You wouldn't understand it, even if it did reply back."

"You're the Empath," she replied. "You tell me if it understood."

"Perhaps it doesn't understand specific words, or thoughts. Merely feelings, energies. Don't fluster it. Keep moving."

"'Fluster it!'" she fired up, then crossed her arms, walking off again.

"My goodness," he said, to her back.

After another ten minutes, or so, they came to a little hut, and Emily stopped, uncrossing her arms. "There! Isn't it neat? I don't know what it is, but I like it! Let's go look inside!"

He shared a dubious glance with her, then sighed, following after her when she took off, yet again, twigs breaking, every once in a while, as she walked.

Reaching the little shack, she walked all around it and stopped at the only window. "See! A window! I bet people lived in here! Maybe it was... like a little holiday house, or something, back in the day! Or maybe they only used it when they went hunting."

"What would they have been hunting?" he asked blankly.

"Deer?" she suggested. "Who knows?" A smile settled on her lips, at the thought. "Imagine if we saw one, though. Wouldn't that be," she did a little melty, drooly voice, _"awesome cool_!"

He shook his head. "Awesome cool until you gave the thing a heart attack and it fell over dead," he muttered.

She ignored him, going for the door. With a little effort, she managed to get it open. He didn't bother stepping in to lend a hand. "Oh, wow!" she exclaimed, hurrying inside. "It's empty..."

He stepped in after her. "My, my. It is empty!"

She threw him a pestered look. "You, pain in the ass, shut it!" Setting her expression, she sighed and marched off, walking around the walls in no time at all, and coming back to the door. "It doesn't even have a fireplace," she said, on a miserable note.

"No, it doesn't," he agreed, unhelpfully.

She whipped around to face him, her eyes shining. "Don't you like it?"

"It doesn't even have a fireplace," he echoed her earlier assessment.

She scrunched up her nose, for a moment, then grabbed his hand.

She was wearing knitted gloves, he noticed, suddenly, though surely he'd noticed before, too, and had merely tuned it out as it wasn't overly important. People did wear gloves in winter; it wasn't altogether unknown.

"Can we now?" she asked, rather randomly, peering into his eyes.

"Can we what, now?" he asked, confused. Can we spirit ourselves back to the house, where it's warm and there's coffee, just waiting to be made?

She widened her eyes, for emphasis. "Can we," nod, "you know?"

"I'm sorry, but I don't know. Can we what? Whistle and Bam!, out pops Bambi! What?"

She shot him an annoyed look, trying to keep her cool. "Can we... hook up?"

"Hook what up?" he asked back. "No. I don't think so. Besides, I don't think you'd be able to... You need permits, probably, and it's hardly worth it, for this minute thing."

She stomped her foot. "Get together!" she snapped irritably. What the Hell was _he_ thinking?

"Get... Oh, that get together!"

"What else!" she groused.

"There is..." He glanced around the room. Yep, they were alone. Apparently, this was where the surprise ended. No impromptu surprise arrivals. Definitely not the other kind of get together, then, he thought. "Well, never mind..."

She peered at him expectantly, still holding his hand.

He glanced at the door that was still open. "If I make a break for it, will you come after me?"

"Yes!" she growled, scowling at the open door, then at him.

He patted the front of her red, puffy coat. "Ah... I think it's really too cold for... for that... sort of... thing... Don't- don't you?"

"I don't care if it's cold! I don't care if it's _minus twenty_ outside!" she snapped. "Don't you dare run away, because I will _hunt you down_, and I _will find you_!"

He winced uncomfortably. "That sounds charming. I don't think any woman's ever said that to me, before, in quite those words." He smiled forcibly. "Can I, ah, phone a friend?" Phone for backup? Sweepers? Her Mom?

"You chicken!" she growled, and dropped his hand, grabbing a handful of his hair, quite painfully, and kissing him.

He should have run, he thought irrationally. He'd have outrun the puny thing any day! Sighing mentally, he decided that the best thing to do was to just give up. If she gave him what she wanted, she'd leave him alone. So, all he had to do was... give up.

He fought to find an agreeable expression for his face, and slipped a hand around to her back, patting it awkwardly. She was just... ridiculously small and... and breakable-looking. It disconcerted him, slightly.

Ignoring the strong urge to swear in several different languages, he gave up patting her back, and kissed her back.

Shit, it wasn't as though they hadn't kissed before! Several times before. What was the big hullabaloo about, anyway!

Um, oh yes, _that_. Quite possibly, that was it, he thought to himself. That would do the trick. _Oh, shut up!_ he whined, silently. _You're not helping!_

.

Five minutes later, to Emily's chagrin and Lyle's relief, it started to rain outside, and the roof started to leak. Emily didn't like that. Even more distracting with the drop in temperature. Her teeth had started to chatter, and no wonder. She was a slight thing, really.

Reaching for the hem of her puffy jacket, Lyle did the zipper back up and patted her hair. "Another time, perhaps, hmm?"

Emily glared at him darkly and pushed him away, storming out into the rain.

"You'll get wet, you daft girl!" he called out after her.

She didn't care; she just kept walking.

He followed her out into the rain, pulling the door closed after him, with some effort, and caught up to her, glancing across at her. She looked mega pissed off. "Hey, how can I help it if I'm just not in the mood? It is me, it's not you. You just don't do that, for me. Which is not to say, any other guy wouldn't f-"

"Just shut up!" she hissed angrily.

"Oh come on. It can't be that important. It's not as though... as though I could care less one iota what happens to you. You don't want that. You want someone who'll care... about you, who'll want to see you again, be with you again."

She stopped dead and turned to him with a horrible look on her face, her eyes boring into his sharply. "It's so easy for you to say!" she spat, rain dripping from her eyelashes, making her blink. "You, crazy fucking you! Even you've been married! What have I ever had? I've never had a boyfriend! Never! The best I ever had was a boy I knew when I was nineteen! We knew each other for two days! Two Goddamn _lousy_ days! Then Mom says to me, casual as you please, 'That's it, we're packing up and leaving tonight!' Do you know what that's like? Do you even have the first fucking clue?" She was crying now, more than just rain running down her face. "I don't play around, I don't do one night stands, I don't believe in any of that! I always want more! I wouldn't ask that of you. I hate you! I hate your fucking guts! Just this once, this is _all_ I ask of you, and _you_, you have to turn me down because I'm not..." she swallowed, fighting back the lump in her throat, "because I'm not _your type_!" She brushed at her eyes, finally, yanking the soaking wet gloves from her hands, in a fit of anger. "I thought you would understand!" she cried, doing her utmost not to break down and sob. "I thought that's what it meant, to be an Empath."

"Emily, I'm sorry, but-"

"I'm sick and tired of your buts!" she screamed, suddenly, and streaked away, through the rain and trees.

He sighed and walked after her. It wasn't as though she was hard to see, in that red coat of hers.

.

She'd giving up running, a while ago, and now, he wasn't so far behind her. As they came up on the farmhouse and the sheds, he ran to catch her up, placing a hand on her arm gently. "Emily, look, I'm-" But she refused to look at him, making him lose track of what he'd been about to say, in his annoyance. "Okay! Okay, alright. If it's what you want, I'll... I'll figure something out. I don't see the point in it, but I can try to... I can try, at least. What do you say? Should I get one more chance?"

She stood there, water pouring from her sopping wet coat, and sniffed. All of her tissues were wet, they'd have been less than useless.

He put a hand to her face, to feel her cheek. "You should go inside, get yourself dry. You're freezing."

Her teeth were still chattering, and her face had a kind of frozen, strained look about it. She opened and closed her hands, her fingers feeling funny, out of sorts; stiff and clumsy. Her lips had gone sort of bluey-purple.

She turned away and he returned his hand to his side. Still clenching and unclenching her fists, she spun about abruptly, and headed off in the direction of the sheds.

"I'm not going back in there looking like this!" she whispered, teeth chattering, when he caught up to her. "I'll get laughed at. Mom will think I'm a complete idiot, and I'm already convinced, myself, that I am one. I don't need her agreeing with me, I might just... drink myself into an alcohol stupor, or... I don't know, that sounds like a pretty good idea, to me!"

Reaching one of the sheds, she ducked under the roof, the rain loud against the sheet metal.

"You're not an idiot," he told her. "Sometimes, you just don't think. That doesn't mean the potential's not there. You know yourself, you're not stupid. You'd never have passed university, or become a journalist, had you been an idiot." He stepped closer to her, cupping her face with a hand. "You're not an idiot, and you know that drinking yourself into an alcohol stupor isn't going to help matters any." He leant closer and kissed her; gently, at first, and then with more fervour.

He was hungry, and he felt about ready to pass out, but as long as he was pretending not to be, it was alright. He could put it to the back of his mind, along with the pain.

It wouldn't be such a bad thing, for a little while, at least, he'd just not thought it the right thing, but Emily had made it very clear that she didn't care about right or wrong, she just wanted to be with someone.

Bobby would have understood, he thought absently, before he forgot that anyone by that name had even existed, before he was too wrapped up in the current situation to give much thought to his little brother.

Emily had gotten rid of her coat - it had fallen to the ground like a wet rag - and dispensed of her sweater. Underneath two layers of clothing, her blouse had still been completely soaked. The rain had really drenched her. The blouse stuck to her skin the way her hair clung to her face, as though she'd been nearly drowned but had been saved, had been pulled out of the water, in the nick of time, choking more than breathing, but thankfully alive.

The cold had rendered her paler than usual, and shivery, trembling all over. He held her close to him, aware that he wasn't any drier, but it was nice to feel the warmth of her, of her skin, pressed near to him.

Her fingers fumbled on the buttons of his shirt, but he pushed her back, further into the shed, away from the rain, back against a wall, and lifted her up off her feet. She wrapped her legs around his hips, clinging to him but not worried, lost in the engaging, exciting kiss they were sharing, in the feeling of his heart beating near to hers.

So he did have a heart, after all.

.

It wasn't exactly how she'd have imagined it going down, her "first time", but then, she'd always thought it would happen sooner, before she hit 41. It seemed an inordinately long time to miss out on something, to her, but there'd always been something holding her back. A fear of abandonment, maybe? A fear of actually caring, but that other person not caring for her in the same way that she did for him? Worse still, a fear of the other person totally caring for her in exactly the same way as she did for him, and having to leave him, anyway; of having to be both the one who abandoned that other person and the one abandoned.

The whole idea of abandonment really got under her skin. She'd had a hard time, as a girl, accepting that her family could not be together. She'd cried about it, some days, wondering why her parents didn't just go and get her brothers back; wondering how life could even mean anything when her family was not her family, when half of it was missing, going through unimaginable horrors she couldn't even begin to contemplate.

She'd imagined running away and going to find her brothers herself, too many times to count, but she'd never got up the courage to actually do it. She'd imagined that they might one day take her, too, so that she'd, at least, be able to be with her brothers; so she wouldn't be the one who got left behind, you would have to concede, "No, I don't know what that's like." She'd imagined just being there, going through what they were going through, had imagined it a relief, of sorts, though she'd always thought it would hurt a terrible lot. The pain hadn't mattered to her. Her parents might have abandoned her brothers, but she would not do the same thing. All of these thoughts had made her cry. Her parents were good people. They loved her, and seemed to love her brothers, from the way they spoke of them. But they never did anything. Could doing nothing still be called love? she'd wondered. Did her parents really love her? If someone came for her, too, what would they do then? Stop them? Let them take her? Kill them? Cry? Just move on? Have another kid and say, "Oh well"? Was that why they'd had her?

She'd had days when she'd felt like nothing more than a cheap rip-off, a replacement for her brothers that would never really replace them, and that had no right to. Days when she'd imagined studying really, really hard so they - whoever they were - would think her as clever as her brothers and come for her. They could do an exchange; they could have her and let her brothers go. She was younger, a girl. She could even have clever babies, if that was what they wanted. They would never be able to say _no_. But she never had been quite clever enough.

Just then, she didn't care if she was clever or not, or if her parents, though they'd loved her, had always still loved her brothers better. She didn't care because she was okay, for the moment. She felt nice, and pretty, and wanted. She felt like she could really be something to someone, and that they'd not want to just throw her away afterwards; even if they did, they'd always still think back and think, _She was okay. I didn't mind her._

She liked that idea. No matter whether it was just to alleviate their own conscience, she couldn't help thinking she'd liked to be thought of, remembered, fondly. Just once, by someone. Remembered as herself, for herself, not just as one part of a family unit, not just as "that journo chick", or that annoying kid who found it nearly impossible to shut her mouth, although all that ever came out of it was rubbish; irrelevant rubbish.

Everything was better, just for this moment, because it didn't matter who she'd been, or who she'd be later; who she was now was all that mattered, right now, and she was happy. She was happy and she could make someone else happy, in turn.

She didn't know that she'd ever truly done that before, without also causing them pain, causing them worry, in the back of their mind, but it didn't really matter.

Not just now.

Her thoughts seemed to come and go, until finally, they stayed gone, save for one single thought: _Please, somebody tell me it gets better. I like it a lot now, but I'd like it a lot then, too, if it were better. I just want to feel better._

She hadn't known how demanding she could be, how mean she could be. Clawing, biting. None of it phased her, in the least, if it got her what she wanted, if it was a legitimate outpouring of what she was feeling, of her happiness, of her need.

She was suddenly savage, and she'd laugh about it, suddenly just break into bouts of hysterical giggling, for seemingly no reason whatsoever; that seemed actually quite pointless and stupid, when she'd stopped giggling.

She wasn't content with the wall. She wanted to try it on the ground, too. Then, she was thinking, somewhere different. How about over there? We haven't tried that wall. Imagine how lonely, how unloved it must feel, how under appreciated. What if no-one, ever, thought of doing "it" there? Surely part of being a wall was being there for exactly that purpose. And that car over there? What about that? Oh, it was her dad's car. He probably wouldn't like that. Well, not when it was his daughter and some lunatic, anyway. And... right over-

Her thoughts suddenly stilled again. What a relief! It was nice, down here on the ground. Did it even matter if she was getting herself all messy? No! What a silly thing to think!

She moaned, overtaken by a need to close her eyes, to just feel. Her body knew what to do; instinctively, it knew what it wanted, and it knew how to behave to get it. She'd imagined there'd be more... more thought involved, but it was surprisingly easy, once she'd got into it, got the feel of it. It was great! No complicated manual, just her, and this feeling - her body and mind beautifully combined, beautifully in agreement, in understanding. But there was something else, too, something she was overlooking, a vital part of the equation she'd forgotten about.

She opened her eyes. _Oh. Oh, it's you. Hi. Again._ She smiled, couldn't help but laugh. _Oops._ She hadn't meant to forget, it was just that she felt so overwhelmed, at times, that she sort of just withdrew, concentrated on the bits she liked best, all of the wonderful feelings.

She stared up at him, transfixed by the colour of his eyes, so different from her own, by the strange look in his eyes. What did it mean? And why did she liked it so much? Why did it make her smile like maybe she was a little gaga in the head? She didn't care. They were beautiful bloody eyes! She thought that she could get used to seeing them. It wouldn't matter if they were happy or sad, or even angry. She knew a secret. She knew how to fix that, real soon.

She poked her tongue out a him. _You ogler! What are you staring at, huh?_ The tactic seemed to work - _such an easy mark!_ - because, next moment, when he lent closer as though maybe to kiss her, or to say something quietly to her, she liked his nose and fell into a fit of delirious laughter, which was only cut short when he did kiss her, and she remembered that she liked kissing.

In fact, she liked a lot of things. But there were still a lot more things she was yet to form an opinion on.

In a wink, she'd reversed their positions and was unbuttoning her hopelessly dirty blouse, a sparkle in her eye. She didn't think she liked it anymore, it was itchy, and she didn't like itchy things. Why she was still wearing it, she had no idea, but it had to go. Flinging it away, wherever, she got busy on her bra. Who needed them, anyway? If she'd done away with her top, why not fet rid of the bra, too. Besides, she was starting to like that little look in Lyle's eyes.

A lot.

She didn't find them creepy at all. Not like she had last night at dinner.

She smiled. Yep, she was gonna enjoy this.

.

Margaret stared at her daughter in horror, at the dirt covering her clothes, her blouse and her skirt, even her legs.

Emily smiled at her. "Guess what I saw!"

"Oh God!"

"You won't believe-"

"Emily, you're forty-one!" Margaret reminded her. "You are not a wildlife photographer! Have you _seen_ the state of your clothes?"

Emily made a face, glaring at Lyle, who was standing beside her, looking equally as mucky. "Hhh! You won't even let me finish! I'm not talking about some animal, Mom! I'm talking about that _freak_ - thinking he can go through Dad's stuff!" she defended shrilly. "He deserved it!" She lunged at him, abruptly, and he backed away, smacking into the wall with a dull thud.

"Oh rubbish," Lyle muttered darkly, under this breath.

Margaret stepped in between them, staring down her daughter and that fierce little look in her eye.

Emily pouted, annoyed. "He was trying to break into Dad's truck!"

"It was an accident!" Lyle snapped. "What are you, blind or something?"

"You did it on purpose!" she hissed, leaning around her mom.

Margaret put her hands out to grab the younger woman's arms, wincing at the dirt on them.

"You - are a total _jerk_!" Emily told him, self-assuredly. "What kind of a loser pushes women over!"

He laughed. "_You_ pushed _me_ first!" he fired up, throwing her a disgusted glare. What kind of a woman pushed guys over, huh?

"Only because you, you _jerk_, were trying to break into-"

"Oh please!" he cut her off, in scathing tones. "You were just _looking_ for a fight! Don't you think I know your type all over!"

She laughed hysterically.

Margaret grabbed her arm roughly, pulling her away with her. "Alright, this is over!"

Lyle rolled his eyes. "Whatever!"

Emily stared at him dementedly. "No way is it over, freak!"

"Emily!" her mother snapped loudly.

She leant away from the older woman, violently. "WHAT?"

"We're done here!"

Emily huffed, crossing her arms over her chest, a chillingly menacing glint in her eye. "I know what I saw!"

"It was raining! I _slipped over_! Take a hint, bitch!"

"What the _fuck_ did you just call me?" Emily yelled, yanking her arm from Margaret's grip and lunging at him.

"At least I didn't rip on _your_ hair!" he scowled. "Do you _know_ what kind of a _headache_ I've got now, thanks _to you_!"

She tossed her head, grinning. "Good! I hope it really hurts!" She leant forward, suddenly, making him bang the back of his head on the wall. "I'm watching you, scumbag!" she hissed, and turned supremely on her heel and strutted back over to her mom.

"By the way, just so you _know_, _he started it_! I asked what he was doing and he said, '_Nothing_'! What a fucking liar!"

"What a fucking bitch!" Lyle retaliated loudly.

She whipped around, deadly fast. "Alright! That's it! I've really had it with you, this time! _Now you're in for it!_ I am gonna pound the living d-"

De Berg appeared in the hallway, no doubt draw by all the commotion, and snickered loudly. Seeing that she'd interrupted proceedings, she waved a hand absently in their direction. "Don't mind me, I'm just enjoying the show."

Margaret shot her a dirty look: Thanks for all the support, friend!

De Berg shrugged, and walked away again, in the direction of the kitchen.

Emily made to follow her, but Margaret held her back.

"Oh no you don't, missy! You are taking yourself straight to the shower and getting cleaned up!"

"I'm hungry!" Emily moaned.

"The sooner you're done, the sooner you can-" She didn't get the rest of her sentence out before Lyle pelted away, and Emily shot off after him! "... eat," she finished unnecessarily.

"YOU ASSHOLE!" she heard Emily scream, a couple of moments later. "I'M GOING OUTSIDE TO TURN THE HOT WATER OFF! SEE HOW MUCH YOU LIKE IT THEN, CREEP!"

"YOU ARE DOING NOTHING OF THE SORT, YOUNG LADY!" Margaret yelled after her, at the top of her voice.

"If you're so _innocent_, then _why were you out there, to begin with_, idiot?" Emily scowled, through the door.

"I heard an owl," he replied, turning on the water.

"Where?"

"Are you deaf, or just dumb!" he snapped. "I said I _heard_ it! I didn't _see_ it! Thanks to you, FYI!"

"Oh _shut up_! Do you know how old that is?"

"You shut up! Eww-w-w!" he whined. "Oi! Have you got dirt in your hair?"

She felt her scalp, pulling a face, and snickered. "Nope! Have fun with that, hobo!"

"Get lost!"

"You first!" she replied supremely, crunching her toes up, on the floor. She was freezing her ass off, even though it was warm in the house. She glanced around the hall, making sure no-one was around, watching. She lowered her voice. "You! Can I come in and sit near the heater? I'm turning into a popsicle, out here. Promise I won't perv!" She jiggled her leg, impatiently, and shuffled forward quickly, when she heard the door unlock.

She shut the door after her, heading straight for the heater at the wall, and planted herself down in front of it, crossing her legs neatly and shivering. The floor was lick ice. She held her hands out in front of her for a couple of moments, warming her hands, before unbuttoning her blouse and dropping to the floor, beside her.

She sighed, leaning closer to warm her chest. "Trudy's fairly creepy," she said, not too loudly, but not quiet enough that her voice was lost amongst the sound of the running water. "Did you see her face? Um, creepy much!" she muttered condescendingly.

Lyle sucked it a sharp breath, as though in pain.

Emily looked away from the heater, over her shoulder. "What?"

"Nothing. I dropped the soap."

She crinkled up her nose. "I didn't hear it." She got to her feet, crossing to the shower, pausing, for a few seconds, before reaching for the shower curtain.

She started to tell him, "You should wash your clothes in the mach-" She shut up. Her stomach felt funny, suddenly, not the happy-jokey kind of funny, either, and her chest hurt. They were some nasty bruises. She didn't like bruises that colour. They freaked her out. "How did you get those?" she asked, in a small but nevertheless even voice.

He left his shirt by the curtain, patting her nose with a little smile.

"How?"

"It's nothing. Negative feedback, that's all."

She made a face. It didn't _look_ like nothing. "Is it painful?"

He shook his head, nonchalant. "Nah!"

"Bullshit," she breathed, leaning to one side. "What's that?"

He turned to face her, frowning. "What?"

She tossed her chin. "On your back." She stepped into the shower gingerly, mindful of the concrete lip, and placed a hand on his arm, gently urging him to turn around.

He sighed, rolling his eyes, and turned around.

She stared at the deep cut, just below the small of his back. "What is that?" she asked, in disgust. It looked infected, angry.

"What?" he huffed, glancing over his shoulder. He shook his head; he couldn't see anything.

She pressed on it, with a finger. "That, you idiot," she muttered, unimpressed.

He let his breath out, wearily. "Damn it! It should have healed up, by now. It's- It's from ages ago."

"It's infected," she told him, her eyes settling, suddenly, on something in his pocket, the chain hanging out. She grabbed it quickly, frowning at it, turning her head away from the water flicking in her face from the showerhead. It would need unclogging soon.

The thing on the end of the chain was a small, silver-looking medallion. One of those Medi-Alert things, she thought, flipping the face over, into her palm, to read the back of it. Diabetes, epilepsy, bi-polar disorder, allergies to anaesthetic, local and general; rosemary...

She frowned, looking up at him, ignoring the annoyed expression on his face. "You're diabetic?"

He tossed his head. "Sorta, yeah..."

"You're epileptic, too? And bi-polar? You're allergic to all this stuff?"

He sighed. "I'm not _exactly_ diabetic, or epileptic, or bi-polar. I'm only... partly, you could say. It depends. I'm an Empath. This kinda stuff's common, for us lot."

"What, so Trudy's diabetic, too?"

"I dunno. Maybe. Look, we're not all... It varies, depending on our training, how well we can process the input; the psychic streaming, if you will. I don't..." he tilted his hand, frowning at her, "it's a stupid word, really, but it's what they call it. It makes it sound more, I don't know, you know, glamourous. Whatever. I'm not... I'm not at Trudy's level. She's a Class Six, T-Corp trained. They do things right, over there. They don't mess around with their Empaths. They respect them."

"What's that? Class Six? What does it mean?"

"One, to Seven. That's the Classing System, as it stands now. One, you're at the very bottom of the spectre, a low-level Empath, yeah? Seven. You're something bit more special. A high-level," he tilted his hand, "high-Class Empath. The bomb!"

"What are you?"

"I'm a Five."

She lifted her chin, indicating the bruises. "Does Trudy get bruises like that, too?"

"I shouldn't think so. She'd have been trained early on. She's got a pretty good grasp of the game, by now, I'd think."

She shook her head. "Can't you... b..."

"Block stuff? Yeah. But blocking isn't the answer, in this case. Blocking is used more when you're, say, there's this Empath, and they're trying to get a Read on you, they're trying to Empath you. You can block them." He tilted his head. "They can block you, and so forth. Trudy's specialty is Empathic sharing. It's a form of projecting, I guess you could say, but it works a little differently. It communicates to the mind, not the senses. We can," he put his hand out, palm up, "we can... make you see things, if we're trained properly, temporarily create a pseudo-artificial reality, if you will. For instance, I could use my Empath glamour to make..." he held out his right hand, so she could see the scar in his palm, "I could make this disappear."

She frowned. "I still see it."

He pointed at her. "You, are a little bit different. You're cluier than some of them. Not so quick to believe in fantasies, make-believe. Come on, you're Jarod's sister. Jarod's pretty good himself, at blocking. Yeah, he can do that too. Anyway, I'm not feeling my best, right now, so..."

She frowned, passing back his medallion. "You should get that disinfected, maybe even cleaned out, first, and have some stitches put in. You should have told me about it." She frowned critically at the scratches she'd inflicted, none too happy. "Why didn't you say something?"

"I can block out the pain; it's no big deal."

She scowled. "It's badly infected. I call that a big deal."

He shrugged, nonchalant again. "It's a matter of opinion, isn't it."

"It absolutely is not!" she shot back, getting sick of his complacent attitude. "You can get badly sick from it! People die because of infections like that!"

He shook his head. Right, but he wasn't people. "Eh! Quit worrying, will you? I'm a Reaper, remember. We can Heal shit like this. Snap, and it's nothing more than a fading memory."

She crossed her arms, her expression defiant. "Yeah, then why haven't you already?" she challenged. "You've had ages!" she reminded him, turning his words against him. "Why haven't you Healed it, already? Huh?"

He sighed. "Fine. Fine. You want to know the truth, I'll tell you the truth, alright. I'm an Empath, primarily. A Reaper secondarily. You can have more than one expression, right. So that's me. But because I'm more of an Empath kind of guy, my Reaper skills aren't quite as nifty as might be expected. They're not up to scratch, in other words. The best I can do is the physical bit, the _Grr! Scary-ass monster_ bit. I can't do the telekinesis, I can't do the electronic interference stuff, Healing is out, you name it."

"You can't suck the life out of people, either, I suppose?" she said.

"No. I can't. Sorry. Bit of a liar. Always have been, I guess."

"Just the scary-ass monster stuff?" she repeated.

"Yup. Spot on the money, honey. Just the scary-ass monster stuff..." He reached for her hand, holding it in his. "Don't tell your brother, okay? I don't want him knowing something like that. He's likely to blab to Sydney, who'll probably tell Parker, then... well, that'll be the end of that. They're my team. I don't... I don't want them thinking I'm completely useless. You understand."

"You need to have that seen to," she told him, again.

"Sure. You wanna have a look at it? I trust you."

She made a face, not too enthused about the idea.

"You'd be doing me a huge favour..."

She sighed, touching his arm again. "Turn around. Let me look at it again. Properly, this time. I can't guarantee this won't hurt. A lot. Just... bite your finger or something. Try not to move around."

"Gotcha!"

She rolled her eyes at his misplaced enthusiasm. She had a fair idea that it was going to hurt, badly, but she had to get it clean before she disinfected it and patched it up as best she could with some Steri-strips. She didn't think she'd be able to stomach stitching anything up on a living thing, let alone one that could talk back to her in a language she understood.

After she'd had a good look at it, she stepped back out of the shower, dripping water on the floor, as she walked, and crossed to the medicines cabinet, opening the door and peering inside. Spying some suitable materials, she took them out of the cabinet and set them down at the basin, then sighed. She turned away from the mirror, which was affixed to the front of the cabinet. "You might as well get out here," she said, finally. "Watch you don't slip on the floor and do yourself another nasty injury anywhere. I don't mess around with bumps on the head. In that case, it's straight off to the nearest hospital, thank you very much. Get out here, before Mom flips her switch on me for taking so long in the shower and comes in here to drag me out. That'll look good then, won't it. Trust me, she's done it before."

"Cute. Very cute," he commented.

"That's my mom!"

.

She sighed heavily, feeling relief wash over her. She wasn't some Goddamn nurse. "Okay. That's that," she told him. "I assume you're done for the day with the shower?"

"Yeah." He picked up a wooden bracelet off the side of the basin and slipped it back on his wrist, drawing a frown from her.

"That's yours?"

"It is now."

She made a face. "Put it back. Stealing's mean." She felt like an idiot, having to say it; like she was talking to a five-year-old, not a 51-year-old.

He smiled. "Relax, alright. Thing's secondhand, all's I meant. It sure as Hell ain't Trudy's, if that's what you're thinking."

She crossed her arms, walking to the shower, and turned the water back on. "You better have a hunt around for some dry clothes," she said. "Ask Jarod. He might be able to help. And don't put that wet thing back on, okay. You'll get your sore yucky again. Go on. I've got..." she picked at her hair, "dirt in my hair."

He grinned.

She tossed her chin in the direction of the door. "Yeah, I can lie, too. Happy? Now get lost."

He winked at her, and left.

She only allowed herself to relax once he'd closed the door after him, dropping her shoulders and staring at her mostly clean feet for a long moment before stepping into the shower and closing her eyes.

She really had to watch out for the idiot; he just didn't know how to be truthful or upfront, ever. He was a menace to himself, as much as he was to anyone else. She found it all to be just that bit ridiculous, just that bit unbelievable. To think that someone most people regarded as accomplished, in control and professional could ignore something such as that, for so long, astounded her. No attempt to suture the wound had obviously been made, at all, which made her think that he just hadn't told anyone about it. However he'd come by it, he'd kept it quiet. Which likely hinted at some unsettling, quite possibly criminal connection, she thought darkly.

The boy just didn't know when enough was enough and when to call it a day.

Unbelievable.

What was even more unbelievable, however, was that she'd allowed herself to get mixed up in it all. What had she been thinking, or had she just not been thinking, at all? She couldn't put into words how pissed she was at herself. She had to be the world's biggest fool.

She unhooked her bra and dropped it on the shower floor, followed by her skirt and her underwear. Why she'd worn a skirt out in the middle of winter, she drew a sudden blank. She was such a fool. She imagined it had been more of the same. Because she'd thought he might like the look of it. She'd worn pants, the night before, but had quickly changed into a skirt when she'd nicked back to her room to find a pair of shoes.

She suppressed a sigh and reached over to turn up the hot water. That was that, then. If anyone ever asked - she scoffed at the thought, creepy bastards - she'd be able to say, nope, "Smoked!" Then again, women talked about that sort of crap all the time, as though they thought, shit, it was okay if they were only telling other women, it wouldn't totally embarrass them next time they met up at some barbeque do, and their bloke, if he got some snickers and some funny looks, wouldn't know what that was all about, so he wouldn't have any reason to feel embarrassed.

She supposed she was a bit of a hypocrite. She'd never had any real girlfriends, so what would she know?

Two, three minutes later, she heard a knock on the door. "Em?"

"I can't get the crap out of my hair!" she groused, irritably.

"Don't be too long or you'll turn into a prune," her mom replied.

Emily sighed. She was having fun with the dirt in her hair, that was no joke. She held her hands out in front of her, staring at the pads of her fingers. Oh, yuck, she'd already turned prune. Nice.

She shook her head, and reached for the bottle of her special - expensive - French lavender and cream shampoo.

After her shower, she got dried, wrapped the towel around herself, and opened the bathroom door. Margaret had left a washing basket and a clean set of clothes for her, in front of the door, and she picked the basket up and closed the door again, to get dressed and gather up her wet things and deposit of them in the basket.

She'd have to find a mop to wipe up the watery muck now covering the floor, too.

.

Charles left the study, where he'd been talking with the boys, and walked through the house, in mind of getting something from his pickup truck, when he caught sight of someone - obviously Lyle - sitting in one of the corners in the hall. Thinking that it would be a good idea to ask the younger man just what he'd been doing outside near his vehicle that morning, he realised, when he got a bit closer, that it probably would be a good idea to wake him first. He appeared to be sleeping.

But in a hallway! It hardly seemed the place.

According to his wife, who'd attended the same high school as Catherine had, Cathy had had strange habits, too; would do just what she wanted, whenever she wanted. The boy mightn't have resembled the woman a mighty lot, might never have known her, but Charles was frequently unnerved by how familiar the kid often seemed, how much like Catherine, his wife's best friend. Sometimes, in a photograph, he'd be smiling about something, or he wouldn't be, and he'd think, _By goodness, that looks just like Catherine._ Margaret refused to see it, of course, and Jarod was very much in the same league; he'd see, in Miss Parker, whose expressions rarely mirrored her mother's, moments when they did, though Charles couldn't say he saw the same. The girl looked like Cathy, that was all. Her expressions, her terminology when speaking, her whole manner, was nothing like her mother's had been.

Catherine had been... different, much like the boy. He supposed one way of putting it might have been to say she'd been manic. Yes, that was one way of putting it. And though people thought her incapable of dishonesty regarding her feelings, because she'd always lived brightly, vibrantly, where emotion came into play, he knew them to be wrong. All of that show had just been a distraction, a front put up to guard the real Catherine underneath from overly prying eyes. In reality, she'd been quite private about herself, about the things that mattered to her, that gave her life purpose. She hadn't been much of a sharer of those things.

But people always chose to see what they wanted to see, he supposed.

The boy was much too much like Catherine, in his opinion. It was entirely a joke, considering that he'd not known her, that he'd been raised by people who'd been complete strangers to his biological mother. But people rarely ever compared them because Catherine had been fighting the good fight - had gone down fighting it - and the boy had chosen to live at the opposite end of the spectrum, to fight for nothing; to care about nothing, but himself.

But perhaps he was biassed, he considered. Before things had really got started with Maggie and he, he'd had a bit of a soft spot for her best friend. When he'd first met the young women, he'd been hoping he might end up with the pale, dark-haired one, the reserved yet so obviously sophisticated one, Catherine. In his own way, he'd always been in love with her, from the moment he'd set eyes on her, and he'd never fallen out of love with her, even now, even now that she was gone, dead; he still loved her, after a fashion. Of course, he loved Margaret in an entirely different way; as a wife, as a friend, a companion, a fellow fighter, and Margaret loved him back for all of the same reasons, in all of the same ways. With Catherine, that had never happened. He'd never let it. By that time, he'd met Margaret, he'd finally noticed the other girl, and he'd been taken with her in an entirely different manner. He never could have chosen Catherine over Margaret, after that. Margaret loved him with everything in her that had ever lived, that had ever known how to live and strived for nothing more. Catherine never would have loved him that way. Sometimes, he thought she hadn't even loved herself; just hadn't been able to grasp the concept.

He sighed, heavily. But that was all in the past, he supposed. Yes, it was all very much in the past.

And the younger man was hardly a boy anymore, he reminded himself. Perhaps, if he'd known him before, he might have been able to insert himself into the kid's life with some measure of beneficial guidance, but that hadn't happened. They'd all thought Cathy's boy dead, after all. Even if they'd passed him on the street, they'd have seen nothing but another miserable looking kid, because Charles was very sure he'd been that sort of kid. Miserable. Completely and utterly miserable, right down to his bones. It was little wonder he'd learnt to put on such a big show to the contrary. Little wonder at all.

He was Catherine all over again. Catherine, who he'd started to think, more and more, had honestly despised herself, had honestly blamed herself, for things that had never been her fault to begin with, had just been things that happened, for better or for worse, when people interacted.

He'd never understood quite why Cathy had been so eager to accept the blame, and why she'd reacted so strongly to the contrary. Had played the dutiful, loving wife; had plotted behind her husband's company's back to rescue an entire battalion of doomed kids; had wound up dead with three kids left behind, two of which she'd never known, in honesty. The sense in that, had always rather eluded him. She might have made do, she might have assessed her situation, counted herself lucky for the things she had, the small comforts, the little charms, the people who knew and cared for and loved her, and let that be that, and lived her life. But somehow that hadn't been enough for her. Or it had been too much.

In any case, sleeping in corners really was sophisticated at all, neither, he imagined, would it had been very comfortable. Walking over, he leant to place a hand on Lyle's shoulder, and gave it a bit of a shake. "You and I need to talk, I think."

"I wasn't trying to break into your car, I was taking a walk outside. I swear, the lot of you are seriously..." He rubbed his face with a hand, peering at Charles with narrowed eyes. "Talk about what?"

Charles frowned at his wet clothes. "I don't suppose you have anything else to wear," he put forth.

"Not really," Lyle replied sarcastically, with a grimace, and glanced past him. "Do you have the time? It appears I've misplaced my watch."

"Jarod might have it," Charles told him, and glanced at his own watch. "Eleven hundred hours, there about," he added.

"Not even lunchtime," he muttered to himself, rolling his eyes darkly.

"No," Charles agreed.

"Oh you-!" He winced, offering Charles a forced smile, and dropped the scowl. "I think you're right. I'll just... be off with me to have a word with Jarod, then." He stood up, holding onto the wall for support, and walked off.

It wasn't until he'd rounded the corner that Charles heard him start talking to himself.

"What's the big idea, baby! It's eleven o'clock, _in the morning_, and you're proceeding to drink yourself under the table! Now me, I don't find that very funny. Either, I've very little in the way of a sense of humour, or it's just _not that amusing_. So do yourself a favour, Angel, make that one your last and go find yourself somethin' to eat. Alcohol's meant to lighten your mood; it can't change the way your life's gone. Don't disrespect it. And, most of all, don't disrespect yourself. We can't all be one hundred percent happy one hundred percent of the time."

Charles shook his head, presuming he might actually have imagined himself talking to his sister. The fact that he didn't _actually_ possess the Inner Sense, though Miss Parker did, had obviously failed to make any lasting impression on him. Then again, he may just not have cared; he did seem to like the sound of his own voice, Charles had noticed, over the years. Perhaps he was merely blathering on in pretence of talking to his sister because it made _him_ feel better, made him feel like a real brother. That, he thought, was entirely possible. The guy was nuts, after all. Certifiably bananas!

.

"The woman's insane!" Parker ranted drunkenly. "She's dead, for fuck sake! But, no biggie, if she's talking, _everyone's gotta listen_! The Goddamn egomaniac! She can just come along and tell _me_ what to do, how _I_ should live _my life_, and _I'm supposed to stand to attention and salute the fucking bitch_; hi-ho!" She laughed. "Selfish, uncaring bitch!"

"I'm with you," Debbie replied, with a nod, glancing back to the traffic lights. Still red. Great! How long were they going to be stuck here, waiting for the lights to change!

Parker looked ready to gurk up the entire contents of her stomach, was slurring her words hopelessly, couldn't even keep her head from flopping back against the headrest, and the traffic was moving at a snail's pace, even less!

It really was her lucky day then, she decided. Yeah, some lucky day!

Parker went on ranting incomprehensibly and Debbie went on nodding, reaching to turn up the dial on the fan.

She supposed she had to be thankful that Parker had had the presence of mind to pick up her cell phone and text message her to come get her, at all. If she hadn't, who knew where she might have ended up by this time. Under the wheels of someone's Goddamn car after she'd been turfed out on her ear for drunken and disorderly behaviour by the irresponsible, _callous_, greedy, money-sucking bastards running the hotel, in all probability!

She suppressed a sigh and hit the gas when the light changed to green.

In the seat beside her, Parker started clicking, swaying from side to side, humming badly to a song Debbie didn't think she'd be able to recognise, even if she knew it.

.

Margaret shook her head at Lyle, sitting outside on the back step. He was humming _Blue Moon_, smiling at no-one. She'd just come from the kitchen, where she'd earlier been chatting with Charles who'd said the fruitcake had gone to talk with Jarod. But later, Jarod had appeared in the kitchen, looking confused at that news. He hadn't seen Lyle all morning.

Apparently the lunatic couldn't set his mind to anything for longer than five minutes, before changing his mind.

"Jarod's in the kitchen, if you're looking for him," she said loudly, to catch his attention.

Not seeming to hear her, he started humming _Time_, occasionally singing part of the lyrics: "..._but to make me forget your love, yes to make me forget your love, is gonna ta-a-ake much more than time, much more than time..._"

He jumped to his feet suddenly, leaping from the step, startling Margaret, and launched into Gene McDaniels's _Tower of Strength_ excitedly.

_Oh dear_, she thought.

He sighed, letting his breath out, giving up. "Ah, Mel, you worry me so, baby. What would I ever do if you left me? What would I do, my love? I'd be alone..."

He smiled, began humming _I Love You Because_.

_Empath voodoo_, she thought. Miss Parker must have been down. The creep was trying to cheer her up. Just to spite him, she hummed along. Wasn't he just the sweetest thing? The thought was enough to set her on the verge of hysterical laughter. Oh, sure!

When he turned, frowning, she said, "Give up!"

He laughed, looking away from her, shaking his head. "You're so bad!"

.

Debbie moaned, putting a hand to her head, watching Parker bouncing around the lounge to _Hippy Hippy Shake_. Her neighbours were going to think she was some kind of wild party animal, at the volume Parker had the radio up.

Debbie didn't know how she did it, but some of the life had come back into her eyes, some of the focus, and that was good enough for her.

She turned on the spot, making a wave motion with her hand. "_Ooo, the hippy hippy shake..._" she echoed, slightly out of time with the lyrics of the song, and winced, holding her hand over her mouth. Oh man! Oh man!

Parker leapt up onto the couch to sing along with _Anyone Who Had A Heart_ loudly.

Debbie laughed hopelessly, wishing Sydney weren't on vacation in Florida. Oh man!

She away from the door, towards the stereo, and dialled down the volume a little.

"Spoilsport!" Parker booed, from the couch.

Debbie held up her hands. "All the same, I have to think about my neighbours..."

Parker jumped off the couch and over to her, grabbing up her hands. "Lighten up, girl!"

Debbie winced, had to bite her tongue not to say, "Lighten down, woman."

The radio beeped, announcing the hour, then the news theme trilled loudly, for a few seconds, and the announcer began talking, reeling off the news stories of the day in brief.

Parker dropped her hands and dropped onto the couch. She stifled a yawn with a cushion and began humming _Come A Little Bit Closer_ in muffled tones, before she removed the pillow from her face. She yawned again and closed her eyes, mumbling, "This is a nice place you got here, girl..."

"Thank you," Debbie said civilly, as the radio played on. She left out a long sigh. Oh boy! Was the woman's life really that bad?

.

Lyle nodded to the door, gesturing ahead of him with a hand. He was going in.

Margaret shook her head and walked back inside, sincerely hoping he'd finished with the crap for the day. First, he started a brawl with Emily, who _never_ fought with anyone, then he fancied himself a pop star. It was too much!

Walking back to the kitchen, she informed him, "Lunch is in half an hour."


	6. Chapter 6

**Additional Disclaimer** I don't own the song _Look to Your Heart_; its lyrics or music.

.

When he walked into the kitchen, Jarod stood up and headed for the door, meaning for him to follow. They walked to the study, and Jarod handed him his things back. His wallet, his watch, his two guns, his car keys, cell phone.

"I'd like to know what you're doing with a government issue weapon," he added.

Lyle frowned, glancing at the clock on the wall, setting the time on his watch and winding it back up. He put it back on and reached for his phone, switching it back on. "Keepsake," he replied, simply, returning his keys to his pocket.

Mo, from the other side of the desk, passed him a small picture. Che Ling, in a pretty blue dress. "I've seen her before," he said, in explanation, his voice plain.

"I highly doubt it," Lyle replied. "She's dead."

Jarod frowned, glancing at his brother.

"Sheila, isn't it?" Mo added.

"Che Ling," Lyle told him, visibly annoyed. "She's dead. I should know."

"She's dead," Jarod echoed, none too happily.

"She was with some guy. Tall, dark hair."

Lyle made a face. "That's ridiculous. I killed her."

Mo frowned.

"I think you're mistaken," Lyle replied, and collected the last of his things, walking out the door.

.

Jarod shut the door, glancing seriously at his younger brother. "What do you mean you saw her?" he hissed.

"Just that," Mo replied, in a low voice, taking point, "I saw her."

"With a guy?" Jarod pressed, disbelief written clearly on his face.

"Tall, dark hair, Bureau shades."

Jarod frowned. "FBI?"

Mo turned his hands up; no idea. He shrugged. "Apparently I was wrong. She's dead."

Jarod nodded. That was right. Still, he couldn't keep the troubled gleam out of his eyes. Were she not dead, what would it mean? What could it mean?

.

_Damn that Henry!_ Lyle thought darkly. What sort of trouble was he getting Kiku into now? He'd better watch himself. If anything happened to K and he didn't have her back, he'd have more than just Nyoko and Mal to deal with. He'd have a stark raving lunatic, as well! She was a sweet girl. Her favourite song was _Galveston_, and she might have been in love with Michael Bublé, she was certainly a fan. She'd wanted to help people, and every day she tried her very best to do just that. Once, a long time ago, she'd been Bobby's friend. He hadn't forgotten.

She was off limits, damn it!

Forcing a smile onto his face, he supposed he'd need to have a word with Margaret about her plans for him. What would happen now? The sooner he was allowed to return home, the better. When there was no-one around who cared, who'd be watching, who'd judge her, if she stepped out of line, Mel sometimes let herself go, stopped caring herself. He'd need to stop by her place and get in her face, wind her up some. She'd snap back to her old self in no time.

Hadn't Jarod been phoning her at all?

For the moment, he put Mel out of his mind. She was sleeping safely, at Debbie's. Debbie would watch over her, Debbie would look after her.

He'd be home soon, he promised himself silently. Back again, with trouble to cause, aplenty; enemies to make. As the saying went, _the enemy of my enemy is my friend_. A friend was just the thing Mel needed.

If only Jarod would ring.

Mel's sadness made even the sun's bright light dimmer, made the warmth colder. She deserved better. She deserved happiness. His beautiful, gloomy-as-can-be Mel; Mel, who'd given him everything he had; whose eyes matched his.

He hummed _You Stepped out of a Dream_, as he went.

.

In the kitchen, dull grey light pouring in from a window that looked out onto a green, green side yard, Margaret was putting the finishing touches on lunch, her back to Emily, who'd taken a seat on the counter top to read the newspaper, scanning down the weather predictions for the coming week. If she sometimes didn't act her age, Margaret turned a blind eye.

Almost 23 years ago, when she'd been nineteen, young and happy, she'd met a boy who'd told her his name was Buckley. It was clear from the first moment that they met that, very soon, she'd be crazy about him. Perhaps, during those first few innocent moments, Buckley had thought her pretty neat, the way she did him, but then something had changed. He'd sensed something of interest in her, a very exciting something, that made his heart clamour harder. It wasn't love, or even desire. It was just that she was Jarod's baby sister.

His luck couldn't have been better, his future brighter! On the spot, he dreamed up a little scheme. The company would love him for it, he was sure. Oh boy, they'd think the world of his initiative! They'd surely promote him in a snap! He'd have no more worries, the rest of his life. He was a made man! It was hardly surprising how she set his pulse to quickening, whenever he laid eyes on her.

He planned to befriend her, to make her fall in love with him. He was a damn good Empath, if he said so himself; he knew he could do it. He'd win her heart and live to tell the tale. He'd be a legend, he was sure.

All was going well, his crazy little scheme on track, until that night. She didn't know him, she said. She liked him, but she didn't know him. She'd like to get to know him before they went any further; she'd like to take the lead emotionally, with her thoughts and feelings. Physical intimacy would follow as a logical consequence, she just knew. He was handsome and caring. She'd not be able to stay away for long. She just needed this time.

That had stung. Time? What the Hell was time going to do? Either she liked him or she didn't. It wasn't complicated! What was wrong with her, with _him_? He'd been so sure she'd fallen under his spell, so sure he'd nail this with ease! Why was she making things harder for him? Why was she making his life Hell!

He'd done a stupid thing; he'd reacted with anger. He'd hit her over the face.

All illusions had shattered.

She'd stared at him in shock and hurt. What... what had she said? He'd stared at her in disgust and contempt. What the Hell had he been thinking? What had he seen in her? She wasn't cute, she wasn't hot, she never _shut up_!

She went for the door, he went for her. He got her hair, she hit the floor. No way was he letting some stuck-up little bitch with a 90-mile-an-hour mouth screw his plans over!

She wasn't much of a fighter, for all of her bold words, all of her bright ideals. She made out like she was a big, strong girl - something to be desired by boys, envied by girls - but that was her favourite lie.

He had her, and then some.

She cried like a baby.

He could have laughed at the face on her, tears doing nothing to soften his hard feelings. It was downright ugly! A princess, she was not. A hag, maybe.

He said some mean things, her face said she believed them. He wasn't worried. He'd won, hadn't he?

He let her slip from his grasp. He had all the time in the world to scrub himself clean of the pathetic baby. She played grownup right up until the clinching moment, then she turned tail and sprinted for the nearest exit. She wasn't a woman, she was the devil. She wasn't a good person, she was the worst kind of person on earth.

He'd just put her back in her place.

He felt on top of the world.

He never imagined she'd admit her deviousness to anyone, never imagined she'd let slip her foolish, asking-for-trouble ways to a single living soul. She'd cry and hate herself, cry and hate herself, but she'd never tell.

She phoned her mother that night; Mommy dropped everything to come get her baby girl. He never saw her again.

He was downgraded to loser faster than fast.

Mommy said she could abort the baby, if that was what she wanted. She never said anything back. For nine months, she never spoke a single word. Mommy knew what to do.

After the baby came, she sent it away. Farewell, granddaughter, and all that. She hated to do it, but she knew she had no other choice. Daughter couldn't be a mother to it, Grandmother didn't know how to handle a baby like that. She gave it to the only people she knew with whom it would never fall into the Centre's hands; the rival. She never thought she'd see it again.

Daughter found her voice again, learnt how to breath again, how to believe in love again. She pretended the baby had never happened, the rape, had never happened. She made Buckley a good guy, redeemed him completely; imagined that she missed him, had been upset to have to leave him. They'd had so much promise. She made him hurt, and blamed herself for it. She promised she'd never do it again.

Mommy knew better than to meddle, though it broke her heart. Daddy didn't know. She'd never tell. Daddy would hate himself the way she hated herself. She hadn't been there to protect their child. Life moved on.

And here they were.

Emily beamed. Oh good! They'd have some sun later in the week. She couldn't wait. Something to look forward to. She eagerly, happily told her mother, who wondered silently how to tell her daughter that she was a mother, that her daughter had come home to her family, that she missed her true family, had dreamed of them every night of her life.

Emily didn't see her mother's anguish, didn't see the tears she held back. She smiled down at the newsprint, turned to her Stars.

De Berg, in the living room, knelt in front of the television, tuning in the channels as she hummed her mother's favourite song. Later, when it was dark out, they'd all be able to sit down and watch TV together. As a family.

She smiled.

.

Closing the newspaper, Emily slipped from the counter with a sigh, her shoes touching the linoleum floor with a thrill of tingling racing in zig-zaggy fashion up her legs, fizzling in her never endings. Pins and needles.

She bent down and massaged her calves, her eyes fixed on the floor. She smiled. They hadn't tried it on the kitchen floor, had they?

She bit back a giggle, massaged her calves some more, giving herself time to rearrange her expression.

She straightened up, her eyes flying to the kitchen table. Salad! Drool! She smiled at her mom. "You're the best!" she told her honestly.

Margaret smiled back at her, a warm little bubble forming in her chest.

"Ladies."

Emily rolled her eyes, her eyes leaving Margaret's and narrowing on Lyle's. "Don't you have better things to be doing than bothering simple folk? Don't you got a job? A fancy car to pay off?" She laughed.

"Sit down," Margaret told him, heading for the door.

He stepped aside to let her through.

Emily pinched a dark green leaf from the salad and popped it in her mouth, turning to fetch the salt and pepper shakers from the top of the fridge, and arranging them neatly in the centre of the table, purposefully not looking at him.

De Berg appeared in the door, moving past Lyle as though, in her world, he didn't exist. She took a seat beside the chair Emily was standing behind. "Salad looks good," she commented, for something to say.

Emily pulled her chair out and sat down, careful not to let her disappointment show. She really didn't want to sit next to de Berg; she really didn't want to talk to de Berg. Right now, she was pretending real hard she didn't know de Berg had any other name. "Yes, it does," she agreed amicably, anyway.

De Berg shot Lyle a dirty look. What was he doing just standing there by the door like some dumb shit ghost! What, he was scared he'd lose, if it came to a fight? Outnumbered. Girls just never played fair, did they?

She amended her expression, favouring him with a smile. Come, sit down. But keep your smart mouth shut unless you want to be dead meat!

Emily sighed. "Sunshine on Thursday, with a dash of luck," she said, to no-one especially.

De Berg returned her attention to the other woman. "Excellent. Good news never hurt anyone. I say, 'Welcome home, son!'"

Emily gave her a strange look.

De Berg nodded, her expression never less than self-assured.

Emily dropped the look before De Berg decided to take notice of someone other than herself. "Welcome home," she agreed.

De Berg eyed lunch with interest, waiting patiently for the others to arrive. Meals were to be shared, after all. Enjoyed in good company. Everything tasted better when one was in good company, when one was light of mood and unburdened by woe.

She whistled an operetta number cheerfully.

Emily tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, nervousness mounting. What had brought on de Berg's sunny mood, all of a sudden? Much to her relief, they were shortly joined by Charles and Ethan, then Jarod, Margaret and Mo.

Noticing Lyle standing by the door, Mo touched his arm as he passed, _You needn't segregate yourself; join the rest of us_, drawing a frown.

Margaret sighed, spying the salt and pepper. "Oh good. Ah... I think that's everything. Alright. Great." Here, she glanced at Emily. "Sweetheart."

Emily smiled at her.

"Happy Birthday!" Margaret beamed.

Emily slouched in her chair, rolling her eyes to the ceiling. "Argh! I'd totally forgotten!" She laughed, nervously.

There was a chorus of "Happy Birthday"s from around the table.

"Thanks," she said, to them all.

"Many happy returns of the day," de Berg added.

Emily's eyes shifted to her face. "Thanks," she forced herself to say. It didn't come out quite as naturally as she'd have liked, but she let it go.

"How old are you?" Lyle asked, though he knew the answer, of course. She was forty-two.

"You should never ask a woman her age," Emily replied, with not so much venom as a lack of warmth.

He glanced around the table, shrugged. "Is that kinda like, 'Diamonds are a girl's best friend'?"

She threw him a frosty look.

He waved a hand dismissively. "Whatever. Happy Birthday."

She didn't bother thanking him.

Margaret smiled at her proudly.

.

Emily picked at her meatloaf, letting the sound of chatter wash over her, joining in none of the conversations. She had to constantly stop herself from resting her elbow on the table, her chin in her hand. Even though it was her birthday, and she usually loved good, wholesome food, for some reason, she just wasn't very hungry.

She couldn't wait for it all to be over. Suddenly, it seemed much too much a charade, a nightmare, a vulgarity masquerading absurdly as normality.

She didn't know what was wrong with her, but she didn't have the strength to fight it, to force herself to eat another bite.

"You not hungry, Lois?" Lyle asked, from across the table.

"Piss off," she muttered morosely.

He smiled, meeting her eye daringly, and began to sing, "_Look to your heart, when there are words to say, and never leave your love unspoken. Day by day, we go our thoughtless way..._"

She piffed a chip at him, from her plate. "Shut up, freak!"

De Berg glanced at her, a frown forming on her face. "Is he bothering you, Emi-"

"You stay out of this, crazy freak!" Emily snapped angrily.

"She doesn't mean that," Lyle quickly said, frowning at Emily in irritation.

De Berg stared at Emily, waiting for her say so.

Emily showed Lyle her rude finger and turned a glare on the younger woman. "Of course I didn't mean it!" she snapped. "Fuck, I'm sorry!" She didn't sound sorry in the least.

De Berg held her gaze for a second longer, then shot to her feet, her chair scraping the floor loudly. "Excuse me," she said, to the table, and walked out.

Lyle shook his head, disappointed, and stood up, too. He didn't bother excusing himself, just walked out.

"FUCK YOU!" Emily screamed after him. "Why don't you just _die_!"

All other sound in the room ceased, all eyes went to Emily.

She dropped her face into her hands, tears in her eyes. "_Just don't look at me!_" she howled. "_Leave me alone!_" She started to sob.

Margaret reached over to catch Charles's hand before he rested it on his daughter's shoulder in a wordless gesture of support. She didn't want to be touched, right now. She shook her head.

Emily sobbed harder, tears leaking from between her fingers to land on her plate, sprinkling her uneaten food.

Jarod said something to Mo, made an effort to get conversation rolling again. Uncertainly, his eyes never leaving Emily's hunched, shaking form, Mo replied back.

Ethan poured himself some more red wine.

Margaret released her husband's hand. He returned it to his leg, frowning heavily. He just wanted to help their little girl. But he couldn't do that until he knew what the matter was.

Margaret's gaze didn't budge.

He suppressed a sigh, returned to his meal, reaching for a knife to cut his meatloaf.

Ethan finished the glass of wine he'd just poured himself, and poured himself another.

.

De Berg stormed outside, to the backyard, and ran to Charles's truck, out by the sheds. Kicking a clump of dirt across the yard, she stuck her shoe on the tow bar and climbed up into the tray, settling with her back to the cab, pressed against cold metal, and drew her knees to her chest, gripping arms about her legs, upset face downcast, hidden by dark hair, mostly brown but for artificial, dyed black tips.

She swallowed any tears her hazel eyes might have had the clever idea to shed and sobbed silently.

"Trudy."

She didn't move an inch, just pretended she hadn't heard a thing but the wind in the far off fields, woods, weaving in amongst the sheds, underneath the truck.

"Trudy, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have pressed my luck. I set her off. She doesn't really think you're... a crazy freak." He sighed. "Okay."

She heard him turn and walk off. She didn't open her eyes. She wished he'd just die. Couldn't he see her mom hated him? Couldn't he see that! How he made her want to be sick, just by looking at him. Listening to his dumb voice. His stupid, lying words.

She hoped he died.

Bloody, gore-filled thoughts filled her mind. She pushed them away with both hands. Played her favourite song up loud. _Someone's Watching Over Me_, by Hilary Duff. Clenched her fists so that her fingernails bit painfully into her palms, imagined dancing with Marie Claire, alone, just the two of them. Her beautiful Reaper, the only man she'd ever love, with his chocolate eyes that, in the blinking of an eye, could burn with flame.

She wished she could have been in his arms again, safe and warm.

She relaxed her hands, fists unfurling, arms unwrapping, falling away from shaking legs. She opened her eyes, lifting her face to the grey sky. "I love you," she whispered, dry-eyed. _I miss you._

Damn those bastards who'd selfishly taken him away from her, those imbeciles who'd been too stupid to see that he wasn't some fucking monster, that he'd been trying to help that kid, save him from those Centre lunatics!

Damn them to bloody Hell!

She'd never believed in such a place, before, but if they did, she hoped they got everything they deserved for murdering her love. Everything!

She dropped her face from the sky, stood up on shaky legs, climbed down from the tray. She pulled Marie Claire's gun from the shoulder holster under her leather jacket, a gun he'd never used, not even once. She'd put it to good use today.

She walked around the side of the house at a brisk pace, gun in hand, the cold air stinging to tell her she was alive, she was powerful.

She waited on the porch, patiently. She only spoke when he'd closed the screen door, to get his attention. "Hey, crazy!"

She raised the gun in her hand, pulled the trigger.


	7. Chapter 7

Margaret was first to reach the hysterical young woman, taking hold of her and hauling her forcibly back from Lyle, whom she'd been kicking; her face terrible with rage. "You're not even human!" she raged, her eyes too wide. "Give me half a chance - I'll exterminate you from the face of the Earth!" She laughed, a manic light shining in her hazel green/brown eyes, and veered forward, suddenly, with a burst of cold, dancing determination, breaking free of Margaret's hold.

"That's for Kyle, you bastard!" she screamed, as Charles stepped in to help his wife out. She'd shot him already, wasn't that enough?

De Berg didn't seem to think so. She kept on fighting, just to get free again and kick him some more. She hated them all! She'd kill the lot of them, if she so much as set her sights on them! That sister of his included! She laughed louder.

Personally, she hoped his sister showed up to haul Jarod back to the Centre. All the better to waste the evil bitch! He was lucky she hadn't splattered his brains all over the front of the house. He was a Reaper, he'd live. She couldn't say the same of his sister, if she showed. She'd blast the devil spawn into next year! There'd be nothing left of her face for them to identify her by! They'd have to rely on her prints.

Emily moved past her parents, barely managing to keep hold of the struggling young woman, and knelt calmly beside Lyle, reaching over to press her hands firmly to the wound in his chest, unfazed by the blood. People bled, it meant they were still alive.

Jarod stood frozen to the spot, for a fraction of a second, taken aback by that. He thought Emily would have been frightened by the sight of blood and so much of it. Not at all, it seemed. It was a good thing, but odd. Just odd.

He supposed she really had nothing to fear; she'd been at death's door, herself. He couldn't be sure of her thinking, but he'd have guessed it something along the lines of the following: It wasn't such a great ordeal. It was just the getting there that was the frightening part. When you were there, everything changed. Priorities, perspectives. All your fear fled with the nearest tropical storm.

In his mind, Emily just wasn't the sort of girl who'd be able to stand calmly by whilst someone died right in front of her. She'd not be able to handle it; how she'd been right _there_, and had been able to do nothing to prevent it.

But perhaps he had her wrong, he considered. Perhaps she thought it was kinder, this way. That the end was kinder than the long, winding journey, on the wrong side of the road. Regrettable, perhaps, but kinder.

He snapped out of his thoughts, abruptly, and joined her quickly. Shouldn't the blood have been stopping, by now; lessening, in the very least? The wound, beginning to heal itself? The thing that worried him the most, at that point, however, was the blood. It was too runny; the blood of someone very, very sick. Definitely not a Reaper's blood.

Emily glanced over at him, her hands now well and truly bloody. "He can't Heal himself properly," she told him levelly. "The drug Mom gave him, it's interfering with his abilities. It must not have left his system yet."

Jarod didn't ask how she knew this, or who she'd asked about Reapers, he just nodded. Okay, so they needed a backup plan.

Ethan was throwing up, at the bottom of the steps, Mo standing with him, a hand on his back. Ethan hadn't been able to stand the sight of copious amounts of blood for a while, now. Since he'd watched the DSA of Catherine's murder, Jarod supposed, kicking himself for allowing the kid the choice of watching it, or not. After what had happened to his adoptive parents, he found it ridiculous that he'd been so stupid, so reckless, that he hadn't thought how watching such a thing might affect the younger man. Though it had been years ago, now, nothing could unwrite the experience.

Running a hand over his hair, he glanced behind him. De Berg had fallen to the floor in a heap, Margaret crouched beside her now, rubbing her back. Charles merely watched his two sons at the bottom of the porch steps, standing by in case the girl had another attack.

Further back, tiny arms hugging the baluster, stood a little boy. Though the child resembled Miss Parker in almost every way, Jarod knew that this was not her, had never been her.

It was her twin brother, Noah.

The difference was hard to ignore. Everything about the boy exactly resembled his twin sister, save for his curly hair and blue eyes, the same shade as his twin's, but seemingly larger, their stare quite vacant, at first glance. Looking further into those empty eyes, he saw a strange sort of understanding of things, of the connectedness between happiness and sadness, a strange understanding that said that someone's sadness could be someone else's happiness, and that wasn't always a bad thing. If there was just one happy person, one genuinely happy person in the world, then that dark pervading sadness didn't sting quite as much. He'd still smile.

His chest hurt. What was the child doing here, now?

He remembered the first time he'd heard about the little boy, the first time he'd thought, _That's all they want, eh?_ They hadn't been so quick to explain that the boy had died before his fifth birthday. For a long time, they'd even lied to him, allowed him to think the child had been a Pretender, when, in fact, he'd been an Empath. That was the only way he'd been able to survive the upgrading process, the brain/computer interface.

When he'd finally learnt the kid was dead, he didn't know what he'd felt more strongly: sadness or relief. The kid was dead, gone; the up-and-up had ended, for him, at least. It would get better for him, too; the attainable had lessened, already, the gradient had fallen.

The fact that the kid was Miss Parker's sibling, his friend's brother, had hurt him surprisingly little. She'd never known her brother. He'd never thought, for a second, that with her brother gone, they might turn to her next. They'd not done so, in the intervening years. He'd thought they never would. How could she ever hope to live up to Noah's "brilliance"? He'd felt her safe. They'd never do that to her. Not _that_. She wasn't some Empath, she was... just her. Just Miss Parker.

She'd been spared all that. Not at her brother's expense, but just because. Just because she had been, because she'd not been chosen. Stuff like that just happened.

He'd never given a thought to any connection that might have existed between them. He hadn't believed it possible. They'd barely known each other for longer than the space of a handful of minutes. But the kid had been somebody's kid, had been some little kid, and he was dead. That was sad. Young people weren't meant to die.

Now, he felt differently. _He_ wasn't some tool to be used at someone else's discretion, to be discarded when they saw fit, only to be picked up again, with the expectation that he should work just as well as he'd always done so. No-one was. Not even Noah.

Since losing Kyle, he'd felt it all the more keenly.

He saw a person inside those empty eyes, he saw a soul. He saw something warm and caring, waiting in those cold, hard depths.

He knew the kid wasn't real, but that didn't lessen the feeling of wanting to stand, wanting to go to him, and just hold him. If only for a second.

Glancing back to Lyle, he mentally shook himself. _Oh Hell_, he joked with himself, he felt so violated right now. Was he getting clucky? It was a joke, a very bad one, an insulting one, he supposed, but still, it hadn't made him laugh.

If he ever did become a father one day, if he ever failed to protect his child from the horrors his parents had been powerless to protect he and his brothers from, he'd have felt very violated! He'd have felt wrong beyond compare, as though he'd been made complicit in something evil, something that went against his very core beliefs. Far from merely feeling that he'd been used, himself, he'd have felt that he'd used his child, from the very moment it had been born, and that was far, far worse.

The whole idea of children was a double-edged sword, for him. He couldn't ignore what was real and relevant, couldn't ignore the past and the way it continued to weave into his every move, his every step into a deeper, darker future; the fight for his very life, for everything in life that mattered, that meant anything, that made life worth living, made it more than one more ordeal.

He didn't know how Lyle had done it, but it had only confirmed his suspicions that the crazy felt nothing for nobody but himself. In reality, he felt nothing. Everything he thought, felt was real, was a lie. The biggest lies of all were the ones he told himself. He'd fallen into that trap himself.

He shook off a sigh, wondering if he couldn't just let him die. That would be their plan shot to Hell, but it would also take a lot of unnecessary hassle, a lot of unnecessary heartache with it, (and not just for he and his own).

.

Jarod sat in the laundry room with a glass of scotch and water in hand, trying to figure out where to go next. It was touch and go, now, with Lyle, but he couldn't deny, it would be a shame to lose this chance. It was an unbeatable chance. He didn't know that it would ever work, but it was every bit worth it. What the Hell had de Berg been thinking?

He sipped his drink, frowning. Angels? Angels? What _had_ Kyle meant by that?

I'd rather die out here than in there. If I ever feel lonely, all I have to do is look up at that wide, wide sky, and I know I could never be alone, will never be alone. We live, we die, we never do it on our own. We may feel lonely, but that's just the feeling of disconnection. Hook me up to that lifeline and I'll recharge, live to fight another day. Don't you know, I've a guardian angel who believes in me? Yeah, _me_. Feel that sun on your face. Can't you just feel the love? The room behind the door, when it's closed?

Kyle hadn't always been sane, but he'd sure believed in his guardian angel. He'd always been loyal to his guardian angel.

It hurt Jarod to think that something that was meant to be good, positive - a guiding light - could have been used to manipulate his sick, mistreated brother. It was obvious that the idea had been purposely planted in his head, in the back of his mind, for a reason.

If he could just pinpoint those reasons, go back through his brother's life and make a mark every time he'd been used that way, Jarod thought he might be able to pinpoint exactly who was to be held accountable for taking even _that_ from his brother, his very hope, damn it!

When he found that special someone, he'd be sure to pay them a friendly visit. Nobody should have to suffer through that, he thought. Nobody should have to suffer having something they truly believed in, something that allowed them to believe in bettering themselves as people, something that gave them a conduit to connect with life, itself, with the rest of life, turned against them by someone else and used for their own selfish reasons. A violation like that was worse than outright murder, he sometimes thought. That, he just could not stomach.

It was a pity he'd had to do just that to Emily, but she'd just not been seeing the big, big picture. She'd been placing an undue importance on that lowly dreg of humankind who'd never so much as tried, let alone _wanted_, to pick himself up out of the gutter and get it together, who had all the pretty, admirable words, but didn't believe in a single one of them. Life wasn't about proving oneself to everyone one bumped into, but it was about meaningful participation, and the kind of participation Lyle practised was far from meaningful for anyone other than himself. That wasn't participation, that was thinking he owned the game and could run it anyway he wanted, too. Could code in a cheat any time he wanted. You either lived or you didn't. You didn't get cheats in real life.

Emily didn't want to waste her time with him when she could have been spending her time doing something for herself, for someone who'd give something back.

.

Charles walked out to Margaret's car, the one with the loud, loud music blaring from inside - Lindsay Lohan, Margaret had said, when he'd mentioned that he wasn't familiar with the artist - not even sure himself what he would say to the girl.

When she'd seen she'd gone too far, she'd not wanted anything to do with the rest of them. Margaret was the only one she'd listen to, the only one whose eyes she'd meet.

Charles wondered how they'd met.

They always said Empaths were for life. If they were your friend, they'd be behind you every step of the way, until their last breath died in their chest and the light went out of their eyes. A quality investment, then.

Well, that was one side of the story, anyway. He'd heard variations on the theme, by the armful. He'd heard such horror stories as he could not believe. That none of them, not a single one, was trustworthy; that they'd just as soon as stab you in the back as New Yorkers hailed cabs. That they'd play every trick in the book until it was well and dead, in the ground, and then they'd play it again. They were without shame, without emotion, at all. Everything they owed was scunged, "borrowed" from someone else. They were empty vessels, waiting to be filled. Inside, they were as dark as the dark side of the moon, as inhospitable as the farthest reaches of space.

He just couldn't believe any of this. He sat on the fence, maintained he'd make his mind up when the opportunity came along. If it came once, then twice, then again, then he'd make his mind up afresh each time. Empaths were only people. People were as similar and varied as anything in the universe, as stars in the sky; suns anchoring solar systems.

Each day, he only found more reasons to vote Tolerance. There was no sense in burning out before he even got to the battlefront, before he even saw the trees for the forest. One was not all; gems could be found in the most unlikeliest of places, amongst the dust and mud. He'd found love once, when he'd found his wife, then he'd found it again, when their children had come along.

He believed in love. He believed in believing in something he'd never felt. Before he'd met Margaret, before he'd felt her love warm him from within like a sun at the centre of a solar system, he'd never felt that kind of love before.

It was very possible, that when he looked at de Berg, that he was seeing one thing when she was another.

He stopped and knocked on the window. He wouldn't mind hearing her side of the story.

.

Charles sighed, heading back to the house. It was an honest mishap, then. He wouldn't have called it a mistake, but certainly a mishap. She'd just snapped under the pressure of it all. Shit happened.

Goodness knew, he'd felt the same way himself, many, many times. Unlike the kid, he'd had a strategy to tackle it. He'd let go. Tomorrow would present its own opportunities, even the possibility of redemption.

But he had years behind him, life experience the girl didn't have. This would be one of the moments she'd be able to look back on; one of her defining moments. Where she went from here was the key to her future. Which door she opened, was up to her.

De Berg walked beside him. He'd persuaded her to come out of hiding, to engage rather than withdraw; to get some positive energy into her rather than hide away, feeding on the darkness inside: Let it out. Live. Give and take. Feel the way. Tomorrow is tomorrow; today is today.

You can do it.

For some reason, she'd chosen not to throw his words back in his face in disgust. How would _he_ know? (No matter that he'd live it all himself. You don't know, unless you're there, in the eye of the storm, your edges frayed and fraying more and more, by the second.) For some reason, she'd chosen to give it a go.

He'd respected her, felt proud for her, in some small way. She'd lost her way, but she wasn't giving up. She was getting back into the fray, searching for that lifeline. A commendable effort, all in all.

He felt like a dad, in fact. Dad, on a good day.

They were often the most memorable days, weren't they? The days you'd want to live over and over. The bad, sad days that transformed before your eyes into something good, something you could hold onto, something you'd want to hold onto.

There was only so much smooth sailing you could take before you started to believe, with good reason or not, it was rigged. Only so many smiles you could handle, before they started to feel a little plastic. Contentment and happiness weren't always visible, in a passing glance. They were a feeling inside. It took a trained eye to really see, to truly observe, the ways in which they manifested in each of us.

He thought, with the right support, the kid might just have a real chance at something like that. That was something. Something to believe in.

In life, you made your own happiness. Out of a dream, it could appear... and you had to grab hold and not let go.

.

Sipping a cup of Earl Grey tea, Emily put her cup down when Charles and de Berg came into the kitchen. "It's not acceptable to hurt someone just because you're feeling bad," she told the other woman firmly, her expression firm but calm.

De Berg laughed, a scowl flashing over her features. "He's an _evil bastard_! He deserved it! Someone _should_ stop him!"

Emily sighed, getting to her feet. She walked to the counter, poured two cups of tea. An Earl Grey for Charles, green tea for de Berg. She walked over and placed the green tea down on the table whilst she handed her dad his tea, then handed de Berg the cup she'd poured for her.

"This idea, the whole idea of life being a scale we've got to balance, gives us the wrong impression. You might go to work and cop flak, then you might come home and cop flak, again. You don't take it up with your boss because you want to keep your job, so why take it up with your loved ones because they're the ones you're doing it for? They're supposed to love and understand you, but what about you? Are you really trying to understand them, when you react with violence? They have their own lives, too, just like you do." She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "What we need is communication. Communicate, don't dominate. And is there any better reason than love to get you started today? Now, I realise there's no love lost between the two of you, but you've got to live with yourself, you've got to love yourself, tomorrow, too."

"There's no communicating with that thing!" de Berg hissed darkly.

Emily sighed. "Do you feel better? Hmm? Are you buoyed by a sense of satisfaction, a sense of real _accomplishment_? Completion? They've hurt you, taken from you; now you've turned the tables, got your own back! Does that please you?"

De Berg lifted her chin, in bright-eyed defiance. "Hell yeah!"

"You cheapen every emotion you've ever felt, the instant you close down and lash out the way you did today! You cheapen every _single hurt_, every _loss_! You make them into just one more excuse! But that's not what they are!"

"You don't know what you're talking about, at all, do you?" de Berg spat. "I make each and every one of them valuable ammunition, bullets in the weapon of justice! They're not excuses, you imbecile! They're my lessons!"

Emily shook her head. "And do you know who you're really turning that weapon on? You, yourself!" Her eyes shone brighter. "I could have understood if it had been a choice between you or him! If you'd exacted the punishment for the crime. But if you let it go, then you let it go! When I was seven, I broke a teapot that had been a gift for my parents' wedding. Mom didn't punish me for it then, she didn't spank me silly, and she never has! She's never woken up one morning and, out of the blue, thought of doing so! You're human, not a machine! Drop the score card and learn to live! Who does that, anyway? Who keeps score of all of the reasons they have not to live, not to _love_? It's frankly sick!" She threw her hand out. "Look at you! Look! You're young, _beautiful_! You've reasons by the trailer load to live, to enjoy life! Try it some day! Give it a spin - you may be amazed! Just because you're happy doesn't mean you're shallow! It doesn't make you hollow! It makes you real, just as sadness does! You're a young woman, not some little kid! You shouldn't need me to _tell_ you this! If you've got something to ask, ask! We don't shoot first, ask questions later, in this family!"

"Emily," Margaret appealed softly, coming to stand by her side, and placing a hand on her arm.

Emily closed her eyes. "You're with us now," she continued, on a calmer note. "If you find the way things work around here aren't quite to your taste," she gestured a hand to the door, "there's the door. You might turn that look on me, you might accuse me of getting even for my setting straight, but that doesn't even matter! That's already in the past. I want you to understand one thing, and one thing only - don't say one thing and mean another. Don't cut our throats in our sleep and play distraught. You were a part of this, too! You agreed that it was the best course of action. You're not a law unto yourself. If you'd had a complaint, you should have brought it up with _all_ of us before proceeding to dish out your own brand of justice! It was your plan, too!"

De Berg rolled her eyes sardonically, donning a girly voice for her next demonstration of quality entertainment. "Sorry, Mom. I won't do it again. My bad. I've learnt my lesson, 'kay. But I gotta say: _Fuck_, you _have_ got a mouth! Fuck, could it be that you've even got a mind? Could you really stand with me, if I stood with you?" She laughed, eyes flashing. "I honestly never even guessed! Whoops! It's like I've been living my life by satellite navigation! I feel like the world's biggest prat, right now! Believe me. I never knew this kind of shit existed like this! It's a two-way street - who knew? Thanks, Mom, for getting with the program! You really saved me from a life of misery and petty crime! Coming from you, Mom, I can believe it, cos I trust _you_, Mom. Despite my demonstrative moods, I really do love you. From now on, I'll follow the program to a _t_, 'kay! Cross my heart!" She pretended to look thoughtful, for a second. "Can I go to my room now?"

"Drink your tea and shut up," Emily snapped dryly, disenchantment shining dully from her eyes. She slipped past them and walked out.

De Berg shrugged, laughing after her, amused.

Charles sighed, frowning at her. "Well, I'm sure that really helped."

"Can you believe her?" de Berg came back, turning wide, irritated eyes on him. "The frickin' hypocrite!"

"I see how you could have mistaken Emily's words as a personal attack," Margaret interrupted placatingly. "In a way, perhaps that's what they were. But they weren't aimed at you. She meant what she said. She understands how it must be, if we're to be in this together. She's struggling a little coming to grips with the handling of it, I think. She'd done things her own way for a long time. She's had to have. Now things have changed; she's not on her own anymore, it's going to take some getting used to her. And with you and that young man thrown into the mix, she's feeling a little out of her depth, I think. This new role confuses her. I think she's done remarkably well, considering. She never had a lot of friends, growing up. She'd have been simply thrilled to have had, it was just never a viable option to get too attached to anyone, to allow herself to become too dependant on anyone else." Here, she glanced at her husband.

Charles nodded. "I think, we were a dash too restrictive, in honesty. As much as I believed her intentions to be nothing but well-meaning, I was cautious, too, that she'd be coaxed into revealing too much, that she'd feel compelled, either by the desire to share something of herself, to bond with her peers, or by meaningful intention, by subtle suggestion. At the time, I thought I was protecting her. Protecting her from harm, from the hurt that comes with guilt you can't quite grasp, can't quite believe."

"We," Margaret said. "It was a team effort, sweetie. We thought we were doing the best thing, under the circumstances. I still believe that."

Charles nodded his agreement.

"There was no other choice. Unfortunately, as you can see, it's taken its toll on Emily. She tries, but... At times, it's all too overwhelming, all so confusing. It seems there's no way out. She panics. Whenever that happens, she returns to familiar, safe territory and holds on steadfastly, with all of her might. She goes back to what she knows. She always did have strong ideals. She was little but loud, where it came to her own opinions and her right to express them. There were a lot of things we deprived her of, in truth. The ability, and more importantly, the will to consider more than just one side of a story, was not one of them. If she believed in something adamantly, she was continually looking to test it, to strengthen it. She always needed to know more.

"She's not a bad person, but she is holding a lot of insecurity underneath that fiercely independent armour of hers. What she really craves is acceptance, love. Guidance. In many ways, we don't grow out of these things. We always still look for them, need them. We just learn to trust our own judgement, to better judge situations, methods; to live without something when it's not readily available."

Margaret sighed. "I suppose we may have been neglecting her a little, lately. I just assumed she'd be alright. She _knows_ we still love her. I don't think that's the problem. She doesn't doubt that we love her, but I think, if no-one's around to constantly instill it, to remind her, reassure her that we love her, she's loveable, she begins to doubt it, herself. We're her parents, her brothers her siblings, of course they'd love her, care for her. But are they really right? Or are they blinded by familial bonds? Is she really loveable? Is she really a good person? So you see why she must hold so tightly to her beliefs, at a time like that?"

Charles frowned at his wife, disconcerted. "Surely it's not that bad," he said.

"I thought exactly that, for a long time, too," Margaret replied. "But I think it is." She placed a hand on her chest. "I feel like I've failed her somehow, for not seeing it sooner, for allowing it to go on and ultimately come to this stage, but thinking like that's not going to help us help her any. We have to accept that it happened and move forward positively, hopefully. For Emily's sake."

Frowning firmly, Charles shot de Berg a glance.

"Frankly, I struggle to Read Emily," she replied merely, nodding at Margaret. It was as she'd outlined it. "She hides it all away." She'd sobered some. Presented with this new mystery, this undiscovered side of an intriguing story, she found herself falling back into an old, familiar pattern. She was the T-Corp Empath again. She was a professional.

.

Before they knew it, dinnertime had arrived, bringing with it, the night. Though it was warm enough inside the kitchen not to warrant excessive layers, Emily still wore a green cardigan. To look at her glum face, Jarod would have had a hard time believing it was her birthday, a day for celebration and smiles, laughter. Catching up with family and friends, spending an enjoyable day together.

He had a feeling she was only eating so much because she felt so completely _not_ like eating; that, in some way, she was punishing herself for not feeling hungry, for feeling so upset and dragging the rest of them down with her. For ruining the celebratory mood. They all might have had a good day, had it not been for her.

When it came time for cake, she took the piece that was handed to her without complaint, and ate it all. She even suffered through the movie on TV, afterwards. Then she went to bed, looking tireder than she'd looked in months.

Charles had been the only one to hug her, before she'd walked off, and Jarod felt annoyed with himself for not having done so, also. But he'd been afraid of upsetting her further, of firing her up to snap and yell at him, full of anger. He couldn't do that to her, when she so obviously just wanted to get through this disappointing day to the next.

No-one else had been brave enough to try, either. He'd always been a bit of a gutless conformist, he thought, and wanted to laugh and slap himself. But he knew where he was coming from, and, coming from the angle that, more often than not, where possible, he ended up conforming with whatever plans the family group had come up with, he couldn't deny he was a conformist, in that case. The family respected his opinion, of course, but if it was coming from those he cared for and trusted, he wasn't often inclined to dissent.

And now he looked at his dad and wondered why he'd stepped in with a hug, with that warm, little gesture, when he hadn't. He couldn't help feeling inadequate, couldn't help wishing he were more like his father. Caring, like he was. Honest.

He began to seriously worry that he was harbouring some kind of blockage against that sort of thing, against sharing his honest feelings with the people he should have been able to share them with the most. It was Emily's birthday, for Pete's sake! It wasn't as though it was asking a terrible lot! It was hardly some sordid Centre secret he was guarding here! Something he'd feel safer tackling on his own.

It was his _little sister_!

He said _goodnight_ and left. He knew it was silly, but he honestly felt lacking. He'd have liked a hug, too, he considered. Perhaps he could pop by Emily's room and catch her before she settled down for the night?

He made an effort to pick up his feet. Why the blazes hadn't he got her a present? Margaret had gotten her an expensive hairclip; Charles, a recipe book; Ethan and Mo, a Winchester pocket knife - it was sharp, a good knife, if ever you found yourself in need of one - even de Berg had managed a cassette tape of some popular band, for her Walkman. But he'd had nothing to give her. Couldn't even manage a hug. What a mug!

_You can add _sore loser_ to that_, he bit back scathingly.

The honest truth was, he'd forgotten her birthday, the same as her. Only, he had a sneaking suspicion she'd just said she'd forgotten, out of embarrassment, or because they'd dropped it all on her rather suddenly and she'd felt flustered, trapped.

With Lyle there, Jarod could understand her sentiment very well. He'd not have felt at ease with the enemy playing friends at any party of his, either, for whatever occasion he was celebrating.

He'd been one-tracked, he'd missed all the signs that should have pointed to Emily's upcoming birthday - when had the others bought their gifts? - he should have seen it and asked Margaret to send the creep packing. If he had left sooner, de Berg never would have been presented with the chance to flip her lid the way she had. They'd have been a heck of a lot better off, than they were now, and Emily's birthday wouldn't have been ruined.

She'd have had a good day. And enjoyable day.

When he got to Emily's room, the light was out, under the door, and the door closed. He didn't bother knocking and disturbing her; he left the way he'd come.

One last scotch before turning in for the night sounded like a good idea, to him.

.

Trudy de Berg was not Emily's daughter, nor was she Margaret and Charles's granddaughter, but she had known the girl who had been. They'd been partners-in-crime since they were eleven. Zerelle had been like a twin, to her. When they'd been younger, they'd imagined futures in which they fell in love with kind, honest, decent men and married, in which their children would be best friends, just like they were. They'd been inseparable, until Zerelle had been killed in a random, pointless act of violence.

The kindest, sweetest person she'd ever known, shot dead at sweet sixteen, for doing nothing more than stopping to help a down-and-out stranger on the side of the road whose car had broken down and whose little girl was sick. She'd offered to drive to the closest service station and come back with fuel, coffee, and something nice for the little girl, free of charge.

She'd never even seen the robbery coming, or the guy who'd shot her at point blank range in the head merely because she'd stepped in to ask him not to hurt anyone, because he hadn't liked the look of her and her different coloured eyes, one blue, one green. She had to be trouble, right, with eyes like those! What was she, one of those witchy types! Sick bitches! Some kind of supposed prophet of the peace, spokesperson of Mother Earth. She was a freak!

His older brother's sick bitch girlfriend had been into all that shit, too, and she'd dumped him, left him high and dry when he'd most needed her. He'd tried to kill himself, for God's sake, because of that bitch!

He hadn't meant to waste her, really. He'd just snapped.

When she was on the floor, with that glazed over look in her eye, he could see that she wasn't that kind of person at all; she was just some kid, someone's little girl, who they'd wake up some morning and miss.

But, shit, he couldn't take it back now, could he?

He'd wasted the cashier, too. Just be to sure there'd be no-one left alive to identify him, to pin the freak girl's murder on him. It had been an accident, okay!

Trudy didn't care what it had been. The fact that the young man had had no qualms with killing the clerk, afterwards, had said everything, to her. The fact that he'd gone for the video evidence, very clearly told her it had been premeditated. She hope the bastard and his little accomplice fried in jail, the psychopaths!

They'd only been one year older than Zerelle and her, seventeen years old, but she'd made sure to assist the police in every way possible to get the bastards who'd done it. They were rotting in jail somewhere now. She only wished she'd been able to pull the same gun on them that they'd pulled on Zerelle and that boy behind the counter, and shoot them fucking dead.

Zerelle had never ever hurt a single living soul in her whole life, but they hadn't given a flying fuck about her! She'd helped mentally ill people tackle their illnesses the natural way, without the aid of harsh, potentially damaging chemicals, but with alternative therapies and will power; and had worked with bereaved kids. Had they cared less about any of that? About any of the people she might have helped, but would no longer have the chance to? No! Had they cared about George, the cashier, or his family and friends? No!

Her only regret was that they hadn't got the death penalty.

In a world where there was no way to bring her sister back, there should at least have been some form of justice for those who did whatever they wanted, whenever they wanted, and damn the consequences.

For de Berg, it was never a matter of, _If she'd just been a CLA-6, like me, instead of a CLA-4_. Her sister had done nothing wrong. That had been those sick freaks who'd shot her!

She couldn't help thinking, well, she understood a little about where Emily was coming from. She didn't want to be that person, really. She just wanted the bad people to stop their shit! Why did they always get to do whatever they wanted, whenever they wanted, to whomever they wanted, and get off? Why did nobody stop them? She didn't want to be Darius, to be a murderer like him, but she needed to know _someone_ was doing _something_ to stop these sick freaks! It was her world, too, and she wasn't about to let _them_ have free reign!

She supposed it hadn't been the right thing to do, to allow Margaret to think she her granddaughter, as much as she'd felt Zerelle her sister, in spirit, if not in body, but she couldn't bring herself to correct her misdemeanour. She _loved_ Margaret, like a grandmother! She respected Charles's opinions, as though they were her gramps'. She cared about Jarod, Mo and Ethan, as though they were her uncles. She was forever dreaming up crazy schemes, stupid jokes, to make Ethan laugh, to get that scowl off his face. She wanted to tell Mo that he was just as human as any of them, that he had nothing to worry about, she wasn't one of those clone haters. She couldn't help feeling protective of Emily, even when she opened her mouth and thoughtless, childish crap came out, even when she wasn't "with the program". She wanted to hold her hand anyway, tell her it would all be okay, in the end.

She wanted to be a part of their family!

She missed her sister.

.

Emily forced open her eyes, frowning sleepily against the dark. Strangely, she hadn't heard the door open, though it was obvious she was no longer alone. She wondered, for a moment, if it was a ghost. Kyle? She listened to her heart, a second, but couldn't find any alarm. Of course, it wasn't Kyle. It wasn't a ghost. It was a living, breathing person. Someone had come in to fetch another blanket down for her from the top of the wardrobe.

Strangely, she _was_ cold. Which only made it all the stranger, she thought. She tried to recall sound of their footsteps when they'd walked from the wardrobe to her bed. She hadn't recognised the gait, and she didn't think it was de Berg. Too calm; measured, even.

Who then? Who else would have _known_ she was cold? Not just suspected, but known, for sure?

She sat up, searching the darkness, heart pounding faster. "Kyle?"

"Shhh..." He leant over to stoke her hair gently.

She suppressed a smile, knowing it was just a dream. She didn't care. She closed her eyes. "I wish you were here, with us," she whispered, though she knew he'd already gone.

Didn't matter.

He'd come, all the same.

.

She woke in the morning, feeling a brighter day dawn. Today, she would be happy. Today, nothing could spoil her mood.

She walked to the window, to open it, and let the air room, and returned to her bed. She gathered up the spare blanket, shook it out and folded it on the mattress. Jarod or her mom or dad had come in last night and got it down from the cupboard, covered her up so she wouldn't be cold. It had been a nice dream, that was all.

She returned the blanket to the top of the cupboard and made her bed. She'd got for a run, today. She'd get some fresh air into her lungs and smile. The world wasn't merely grey. It was colourful and full of dimension, unexpected depths and delights.

.

Margaret was up and about, when she got back from her run, and she sat down for a coffee, before going for a shower.

As she was leaving the kitchen, de Berg appeared with something to say. "I have to apologise to you both, for my conduct yesterday. It was entirely reckless, on my behalf. I didn't think it through. I was acting purely out of selfishness. I'm sorry, for that, and I hope, in time, that you can come to forgive me."

"Already done, sweetie," Margaret replied. "Come, have some breakfast."

De Berg's glance lingered on Emily's face.

She shrugged a shoulder. "I was a bitch too." She tossed her chin. "Yeah, it's over. It's in the past. If it's what you want to hear, if you honestly need to hear it put to words, I forgive you." With that, she walked out.

She'd deliberately steered away from stressing the _I_. De Berg had already forgiven herself, she supposed. There was no point in her causing trouble today. Perhaps the woman had honestly seen the error of her ways. Only time would tell.

She'd decided that she didn't really care, anyway. If the woman tried the same thing with any of them, she'd be taken out in a snap, out for the count, on the floor. She couldn't have been that stupid, surely?

Maybe Lyle had deserved it, for all the misery and suffering he'd brought on others, and maybe he'd even pissed de Berg off enough to deserve it, coming from her, after all, who was she to say he hadn't? Compared with de Berg, with what they knew of her, his track record for sick, evil shit far outstripped hers. After all, if anyone would know, if birds of a feather truly recognised one another that much more accurately, de Berg fit the bill seamlessly, with her wicked little gleaming-darkly eyes, full of dark promise. Maybe just, the girl would be their secret weapon.

Had the girl truthfully chosen their side over the temptation of the dark side? It was worth giving her another chance, in any case, Emily conceded. In reality, she was right. People like Lyle didn't change, they didn't stop - they _were stopped_.

She'd never have been able to do what de Berg had done, but that didn't mean she didn't find a small part of her agreeing it had been the right thing to do. Now that she'd had the time to sit back and consider it, to really think about it, there were thousands of others, just like Lyle, out there, others, much more worthy of a helping hand in the redemption stakes. Why she'd chosen him, was senseless. Utterly without point. He'd been right, in the end. She'd thought, _He looks like us_... and that had been her first mistake. She'd never thought herself one of those people, the sort of people who believed that looks could define everything about you, that what you'd been born with on the outside must have equated to the sum total of what you'd amassed, on the inside, or could ever hope to.

She'd allowed herself to be led down the garden path, merely because she'd thought him cute, she'd thought there might be some mutual spark of understanding there, underneath all of the hurt and pain and cheaply-constructed facade. Their parents had once stood united for the sake of their families; at least, her parents and his biological mother. But she'd been looking for something that just wasn't there, and seeing it anyway.

Time to give up, she thought. Shake a habit that could prove hazardous to your health, before it's too late. Today, she shook her habit.

Today, she'd give de Berg a second chance, instead, and see what came of it. After all, de Berg could have killed him, if she'd wanted.

She'd just lost her temper, in reality. Where she was from, Reapers could all Heal themselves; where she was from, they respected life, they didn't toy with it for their own pleasure. Where she was from, they expected reprimand to follow transgression, the same as they expected due consideration for the things they did right. Where she was from, nobody was left out, left alone. They were each a part of the greater whole; each had their role to play.

That was how Jarod had understood it and explained it to her yesterday, in any case. At the time, she'd been pissed he'd been defending the crazy woman, but she'd since given that away. She tended to trust her older brother's word. Any behaviour to the contrary would only serve to endanger the entire company, a concept the Centre seemed to struggle with, though it was simple, in reality.

If Jarod, who knew the way it worked with these companies much more intimately than she herself, could forgive the woman, could bring himself to consider her point of view, then so could she. She wouldn't let him down again. She wouldn't let her family down again. _She was a team player._

.

Talking quietly to de Berg, Margaret didn't hear Lyle's approach until he'd shuffled unsteadily into the kitchen, suspiciously sporting the pallor of the recently deceased. The moment her eyes landed on him, she shot to her feet in alarm. What was he doing up and about? Hadn't he just been shot yesterday, and nearly died!

Holding onto the doorframe for support, his eyes rolled in his head, for a moment, before coming to rest on her own. "I'd like to be discharged, now, ma'am," he told her. "If you don't mind. You can drop me off where you found me." He swayed, his eyes closing and opening again. Next moment, he collapsed with a dull thud.

Jarod hurried it up to the kitchen, a frown appearing on his face. "What is he doing up?" he asked the pair, wildly.

"Wants to go home, it seems," de Berg offered.

Jarod made a face at her. "He doesn't have a home," he said, half in disgust. What was the matter with her? That monster - a home? What a joke! Home, for him, would be a cell in some slammer someplace, or a hole in the ground, rotting into compost.

Lyle coughed, managing to stand once more. "My mistake. I should say, the old hunting ground awaits." He laughed, coughing again.

Jarod scowled darkly.

"If it's not too much to ask for," Lyle replied, "before I die, I'd like the chance to make my farewells to the woman I love."

Jarod marched over and slapped him across the face, knocking him to the floor again.

"Something I said, brother?" Lyle joked.

Jarod glared down at him as though he was less than dirt.

"We can't choose who we love," Lyle told him, and laughed.

Margaret left the table and took hold of her son's arm to stop him from doing anything stupid.

"Lo, madam, still the hour draws on."

Margaret threw him a filthy glare. "I'll be only too happy to have you out from under my feet." She pointed sharply at the door. "Leave!"

Ethan and Mo appeared in the door.

Lyle stood up. "Little brother," he said, to Ethan, nodding.

Ethan made no reply but to glower.

"Shouldn't the drug have had sufficient time, by now, to work itself out of your system?" Mo asked, much to the surprise of his family. "And yet, you've not yet Healed." He referred to the visible bruise on Lyle's neck, the paleness of his complexion.

"Oh, I'm hoping to garner a few sympathy votes, win myself a couple o' favours, with the ladies, if you know what I mean. Heck, I'd ever be pleased enough with pity, at this point. Been a while."

Mo stalked over and seized the hem of his shirt, yanking it up at his back. He glared at the gash Emily had patched with Steri-strips. "How many Empaths do you know who process their negative feedback as direct physical manifestations of the damages inflicted upon those with whom they've Empathically connected, de Berg?"

Lyle pulled his shirt back down, glaring dirtily at Mo. The bloody nerve of him!

De Berg slowly rose from her chair, a frown appearing on her face.

"Just so you know, you little _freak_," Lyle snapped viciously, "that's not _negative feedback_! I got it on Field, typical dunce that I am! What a fucking perv!" He glared at Jarod. "You favourite little abomination's worse than your Goddamn mother!" he spat.

A smile curved de Berg's lips wickedly, her eyes glittering. "Oh, I like that drug!" she breathed, gliding toward him.

Lyle stormed off, for the door.

Mo stepped in the way. "Not so fast, _sociopath_!" he hissed.

"Stand aside!" Lyle growled.

Mo smiled. No way in Hell, mate.

Lyle gave an animalistic growl and gestured to the side, with his hand, palm open, pointing downwards.

Without warning, Mo was pushed into the side of the fridge.

"Last warning, Pretender," Lyle growled dangerously. "The next time, I snap your stupid little neck."

Jarod's gun was drawn and levelled on his head.

"Oh please!" Lyle scowled. "Do you know how pathetic you look, right now?"

"That's enough!" Emily's angry (but even) voice came from the hallway, accompanied by an equally as angered face, eyes dark, and the sound of dripping water, running from wet hair. Her chest heaved.

Lyle smiled at her deviously. "Anything for you, my love," he joked.

Emily scowled. "Don't make me come over there."

"Ooo," he laughed, and sighed. "Promises, promises. Why must they all be so empty, my princess?" He lifted his chin, putting away the sharp black claws, the pointy teeth. The brown eyes. "I daresay the abomination shall live," he breathed, and left the kitchen.

She backed away, back against the wall, to let him pass, glaring after him furiously all the while. To think, she'd believed the liar when he'd said he wasn't telekinetic! What kind of a fool was she, really? "Walk under a bus!" she yelled after him, but he only raised a hand to wave, without turning back and kept walking.

Jarod lowered his gun, moving to Mo's side. "How are you?"

Mo shook his head. "I'm fine," he said. The Reaper had gone easy on him, all things considered. He doubted he'd even have a bruise. He hadn't even knocked his head. Lyle's telekinesis was either very weak, or he had extremely good control over it. Mo suspected the latter. The way he'd returned to his usual form seemed to indicate it, in any case. Which fit in with the manner in which he'd chosen to kill those poor girls. As a normal person, not as a Reaper. In his Reaper form, he'd have found it extremely difficult not to make more of a mess of them.

Obviously, he'd only been playing at anger. If he'd truly been in a mood, he'd not have been able to revert the way he had, almost at the click of his fingers. He was no T-Corp Reaper, after all.

Mo glanced at Emily, wondering. Why had he listened to Em when she'd told him to chill out? Had it just been to taunt her? _That would do it_, he thought. It seemed his Reaper side was merely a servant to his sick murderous bastard side. When it got in the way of one of his little games, when it was no longer useful, it was time for it to go.

"May we speak?" he asked Jarod.

Jarod tossed his head to the side. Speak, they would.

.

In the study, he turned back to Jarod. "I don't believe de Berg's mystery drug capable of focussing the form and extent of negative feedback like that," he told him. "Of inhibiting an Empath's usual means of blocking, perhaps. But not that."

"What are you saying?" Jarod asked, frowning. He was trying to follow Mo's argument, but he didn't know where it would end.

"He's not a Class Five," Mo replied.

Jarod shook his head. "Oh, come on!"

"That wasn't negative feedback!" Mo replied vehemently. "The bruises, yes! A little internal bleeding, yes!"

"The scratches?" Jarod queried.

"He may have done that himself." He'd had a few scrapes and scratches that had become itchy when they'd been healing. Very annoying.

"Then what?" Jarod asked. "Perhaps it's his specialty? His kid's a specialist in psychometry, same as Angelo. We've never been made privy to what his specialty might be."

"I don't buy it," Mo told him. "He's chiefly an Empath, and his grasp of his Reaper side is that impeccable, yet his Empath side is strangely lacking in comparison! Do you buy it? Has he ever tried the Empath vibes on you? Impending doom? Spontaneous crazy happy? Projected any false realities into your mind? Anything remotely Empath-like, aside from his smart mouth?"

"Are you saying he's not an Empath?" Jarod asked, without answering his brother's questions. "How can that be?"

"I'm saying his control over his Empathy falls short. Very short."

"Not really," Jarod replied. "He's able to kill those girls, no problems there."

"Empathic blocking takes care of that. I'm willing to bet, twenty to one, he doesn't Empath them when he kills them. He couldn't process something like that without seriously endangering himself."

"He has problems processing," Jarod clued on, narrowing his eyes. Now _that_ made some semblance of sense. "But why the strange negative feedback?"

"It's not negative feedback," Mo repeated. "It's how he processes the psychic streaming."

Jarod hissed. "Hoo! That's dicey."

"You don't say," Mo replied.

"I wouldn't play around with that shit."

"Not me," Mo said.

Jarod frowned. "You think that's why he's such an insensitive bastard?"

"I'm not making excuses for him!"

Jarod shook his head. "I didn't presume to think you were." He nodded. "What does this mean? You think he's a triple possessor? Empath, Reaper, ISP? That's where he gets all of that clever shit he frequently spits out?"

"I don't know," Mo replied.

Jarod nodded. "It certainly gives one food for thought," he said. It did. If it had been solely by coasting on his Inner Sense that he'd been awarded Class Five in the Empath stakes, then he'd want to be some ISP, that was for sure. One damn good Inner Sense Possessor!

He put it a different way, "Hang on! Say he is a Five, and going with this new idea. If Empathic Blocking is out, and the drug was disrupting his Reaper abilities-"

"He used his Voices to Block in its place!" Mo finished.

"I think we're onto something. That's how he was able to limit the physical damaged he sustained, or else, when we watched that," he grimaced, "...he'd have been in a heck of a lot sorrier a state, let me tell you!"

"Secondary expression is an Empath's best friend. Every little bit helps." Mo nodded. He was following. "Secondary expression helps stabilise Empathy." He frowned thoughtfully. "Personally, I'd have rather taken Mediation, but hey, luck of the draw, right!"

"Yup."

"Who'd have thought, a lowlife loser like that!"

"Who'd have thought, indeed. He's good!" Jarod held back from sighing. "We've got to stop underselling him. The boy's a force to be reckoned with, we just never saw it from quite the right angle."

Mo tossed his head. "Oh, he is."

"Question is, How does this alter the game, or does it?" Jarod asked.

"Let's get cracking on it."

.

Charles refrained from grating his teeth, or pulling his weapon. He didn't feel at all comfortable with the guy, after what he'd just heard from his wife, over the phone. He waited by the truck for Jarod's word.

A couple of minutes later, Jarod came walking out of the house, and headed their way. "It's okay, Dad. There's no reason to keep him here any longer." He didn't say _With us_. Meant it, nonetheless. "Stay safe."

Charles nodded, clapping a hand to his son's arm. He turned and unlocked the car, pulling open his door.

Lyle grinned. "Alright, baby! Finally! Let's blow this joint! You and me, Chuck Chucketty Chuckums!"

"Charles!" Jarod hissed.

Lyle winked at him and got into the car.

Jarod scowled. In the words of Parker, on a bad day, Puke!

He walked back to the house.

Too bad de Berg hadn't hooked him up with some of that wonder drug of hers. It would have made an outstanding parting gift! Too bad it seemed to have worn off. The shit would have gone down a treat in a big city!

Pity about that Inner Sense. Without it, take away the creep's ability to pick and choose what he Empathed, he'd be down and dusted in two seconds flat in a metropolis like New York, D.C., LV. Really, even Blue Cove would do the trick.

The reason they'd brought Lyle out here, to this farm, so far from the hustle and bustle, why they'd holed him up in that shitty basement, had been to limit his exposure to the psychic energies. It was the same reason de Berg had Empathically shielded them when they'd been around him. She hadn't been very serious about killing him, Jarod thought, considering. Lyle didn't know how thankful he had to be, for her being there. She'd probably saved his life a dozen, a hundred times already. ISP or not. Really, he had no reason to be getting so huffy over a little gunshot wound. But that was him all over. Always had been, would always be.

It really was a pity.

He'd have to ask de Berg about that drug, he thought to himself. Get the low down.

.

Charles afforded his passenger a quick glance, noticing that he seemed to have turned a paler shade than he'd been just ten minutes ago. He seemed to have dropped the cutesy bravado crap the second they'd been out the farm entrance, as though being away from his intended target sapped any energy he'd had for the task. Now, his eyes were unfocussed, glazed over. They rolled in his head at odd moments. He'd slumped against the side of the door. Charles really couldn't help wondering if he was getting ready to shuffle off his mortal coil. That, and he was seriously wondering why, if he'd been able to do so before, Lyle hadn't kept up the front that he really was fine, recovering well. It was obvious that just wasn't the case. Did he just not have the energy, or did he not think him of much concern, much of a threat?

Charles frowned at the road. Could be that it was a touch of Empath hocus-pocus, he considered. Could be just a nice little show, engineered especially for him. To win his concern. A dash of compulsive liar's showmanship, thrown in for good measure.

Lyle started mumbling in what he recognised as Arabic, of some dialect unknown to him, indistinguishable from the rest. He thought he recognised _'uxt_, sister. He wasn't a whiz at languages, or anything, but there were a few words he'd put away for a rainy day. Words he'd asked about, when he'd encountered them; words he would remember. Admittedly, most were Spanish or French. He didn't know a lot of Arabic. The most valuable word he knew in Arabic was probably _habibti_, he thought. _My love_, from a husband to his wife. Then there was _yalla_, which he'd been told translated as something like _Get a move on_, _quick_, _hurry up_. A couple of Norwegian and Icelandic words, a couple more in Vietnamese, and that was the sum total of his mad language skills. _Lillesøster_. Little sister. But really, he had no idea what Lyle was talking about.

He supposed that might have been a good thing. Considering that it was Lyle, it might have been a fantastically good thing. The sort of stuff that went through the cracker's head, he thought, wasn't the sort of stuff he'd find particularly interesting or enlightening to know. He'd likely find it very, very disturbing, in fact.

He reached to switch the radio on, relieved when Lyle stopped talking to himself in his sleep. Forcing himself to think of other things, he supposed the creep must have trusted his driving ability some, to have fallen asleep when he was driving. He really didn't want to think about the possibility that he might not have been asleep at all, but, instead, in some kind of creepy trance and communicating with the home base, beaming their co-ordinates to the mother ship, or whatnot.

He was just sleeping, was all. There was nothing sinister about that. It was what people did when they got tired, and he hadn't been looking well to begin with. He was just sleeping.

They came to an abrupt halt at a Stop sign just outside of town, and Lyle woke up and asked Charles something he didn't understand. Another language he didn't know, he thought.

"No, of course not," he said, after a moment.

Charles shot him an annoyed look. Why was he even asking stupid questions in languages he clearly couldn't understand? Why couldn't he just speak English?

"How far will it be, roughly? Do you know?"

Charles glared out the windscreen, at the sign up ahead, listing distances to various nearby townships.

Lyle closed his eyes, muttering something foreign again.

"What?"

"I'll be fine," Lyle translated tiredly.

"Try speaking in a language I can understand, will you!" Charles snapped.

"Oh, wasn't I?"

Charles bit back a scowl. "No, you weren't! I don't speak Danish, actually!" It had been on the tip of his tongue to say Dutch or Swedish, but he'd chosen Danish instead. Those nice biscuits were Danish, weren't they. The ones people ate at Christmas.

"Afrikaans..." Lyle mumbled.

"African, then!"

"Afri... There's no such language as African. African languages, but not..." He trailed away, losing interest.

Charles made a face at him. Did he really have to twitch like that? It was disturbing, not the least that it was very distracting. People were going to think he was getting around with a drug addict. The cops, for one.

"Can you stop? I think I need to... Please, stop..."

Rolling his eyes, Charles looked around for a spot to pull up. Luckily, there was a park up ahead. With free parking, on the plus side.

He hit the indicators and pulled up at the curb. He barely got the thought out to ask Lyle why they'd stopped before he was out the door. Why he was just standing there, Charles had no idea. It hit him a few moments later, when the younger man collapsed to the ground and started convulsing.

Epilepsy. Just lovely. Frickin' Empaths! One would think they'd be able to remember to take their pills, he thought angrily. Did it look like he wanted to spend the whole day in this lunatic's company? No! He sure as Hell didn't! The sooner he was gone, the better.

.

It was a relief when he was able to drop him off at the motel they'd taken him from, three hours later. Not such a big relief when he offered to buy him something to drink, a coffee, maybe, to be sure he got back to the farm safe and sound.

Charles strongly wanted to lean over and yank the door closed and speed away. He didn't do that, though. He went with the bloody crazy to get a coffee and something to eat. The cuckoo was paying, thankfully.

So there went forty minutes of his life he'd never get back, he thought sourly, as he made his way back to his truck. Not to mention the _hours_ he'd spent on the road, ferrying the crazy around. He was just glad it was over, finally. Finally over. He almost couldn't believe how glad he was. It was crazy! (There hadn't been anything funny in that coffee, had there?) He thought he'd have been more worried, but, for the moment, his gladness outweighed his capacity for wariness.

He'd be able to get back to his family, now, where he _really belonged_.


	8. Chapter 8

**Additional Disclaimer** I don't own any of the songs from the Katy Perry album, One of the Boys, the music or lyrics. Nor do I own _Firework_, or As _I Lay Me Down_, any of their lyrics or music.

* * *

><p>"Hey, you!"<p>

"Hello!"

"How are ya?"

The smiling 11-year-old chewed on his lip thoughtfully. "Good!" he answered. "You?"

Lyle smiled. "Good."

Reagan grinned. "We had cake yesterday!"

"You did?"

Reagan put a hand over his mouth to stifle a laugh. "Fin told the new Sweeper it was her birthday and she snuck us some cake from up in Dining."

Lyle narrowed his eyes. "Devious. Thirteenth, right?"

Reagan's eyes went big. "You don't know!"

"Wrong answer?" He frowned.

"She's fifteen!"

He widened his eyes. Um, embarrassing! "Wrong answer."

Reagan inched closer. "What's wrong with your eye, big brother?"

Trust the kid to see through his glamour, he thought. "What?"

Reagan frowned sadly, disappointed that he'd not only tried to trick him, but that he'd just done it again.

"I got a... a bit of... thing in it."

"_Shut up! Don't be a baby! It's what you get, baby!_"

Lyle shook his had. "Katy Perry?"

"_I wish that I was looking into your eyes._"

"What's this, bub? What do you think you're lookin' at?" He made a little alien antennae gesture with his fingers. "Alien feelers?"

_At_, not _into_.

"You're a liar!" Reagan accused flatly. In a heartbeat, his expression switched. Moody chose anger. "Don't scrunch your nose up like I'm a baby or a colourful jelly bean or something! It's not cute! _I'm_ not cute! I'm mad at you! I'm really angry! I'm sick of all your lies!"

"You wanna wait 'til you're a little older and you've got a kid of your own, doll. You see the lies you'll be handing out - left, right, and centre like it's candy on Trick or Treat night."

"Left, right, _in_ centre!" Reagan scowled.

Lyle put his hands out. "In."

"Hallowe'en!" Reagan snapped.

Lyle frowned. "Yo! Gimme a break over here! Tiny, tiny one. Let me get my breath. You're so... Parker!"

Reagan scowled venomously. "I wish she was my mother instead!" he hissed, and turned about, storming away.

Lyle rolled his eyes. "Reags! Got you somethin', babe. Babe!" He whistled. "Kiddo!"

Reagan froze, balling his hands up into fists at his side. _He_ didn't get to call him that! The fucking liar! He swung about, smiling like a crazy.

A hand on his arm caught him off guard. "Little one."

He glared at Angelo. Not your business! Stay out!

Angelo frowned, grimacing, a little bit happy, a little bit sad, a little bit _Look how far you've come_, a little bit _I believe in _you.

Reagan glared at the floor. "Sorry, Ange," he muttered. Stupid, stupid idiot. No right to take his anger at his father out on Angie. Angie didn't hurt people.

Angelo touched his hair.

_Like his mother's_, Reagan thought. _Like his. Like _my_ mom's._ He relaxed. Ninety-nine red balloons, right? Blue sky. Big open meadow, filled to the brim with warm sunlight. He closed his eyes. Sunshine, whisper of a breeze, red blending into blue.

"Back so soon?" Kim's voice asked.

"_Say something funny. Say something sweet._"

A confused silence.

Reagan opened his eyes.

A funny look on Kim's face.

"_We're going down for sure._" Lyle shook his head. Didn't matter. "_I'm still breathing._"

"_Fist in the air, I'm not going down without a fight_," Reagan murmured, "_so stop writing prescriptions for my Ritalin. This was never the way I planned, not my intention. It's my life. I won't settle. I'm not sitting on the sidelines. It leaves me nothing but blisters."_

Lyle left.

Infinity bounded into Commons, some moments later. "_Hola, amigos!_ What up?" She glanced around at them all. Wow! Quiet. Dang, when had the remod boys been in and changed the place into a library! She'd totally oblivious'd on them. Wow! Strange. So strange.

She skipped over to Angelo and Reagan. "My main man!"

Kim planted a hand over his heart, looking heartbroken and appalled. "I thought I was your main man!" he joked, all hurt.

She tossed her head dramatically. "Nah! Girl moved on. Wanted a man, not a _boyyy_!" She smiled cutely at Angelo.

Angelo held her gaze seriously.

"Joke, guys," she echoed, jazz hands-ing.

Kim cracked up, snapping his fingers to get her attention. "Baby girl!"

She shuffled away from the two sombre-faced Empaths, over to her "brother", her fellow Pretender.

The 12-year-old patted her hair.

She ducked out of his reach, quickly.

"Hit me, B.G.! What choo thinkin'? Coulda done better, 'be?"

"I was going for coy, _adelfós_. Please be advised, you are now entering the nerd zone." She broke into a robot dance.

Leaning backward, he mimicked shooting a gun. "Right on, 'fí! Work that 'tude!"

"B-b-bookish!" she pouted, blowing him a kiss. "Sh-sh-sh... it! Technician please!" Her hands chopped the air frantically, eyes wide, wide, wide. Oh, sh-oop! Glitch!

Kim broke into amused laughter.

Lyle reappeared, sighing. "Take it easy," he offered. "How are you two?"

Kimmy nodded. "So-so." He threw the glitching robot a frown. "Lovebot's fritz'd, I fear. Say, speak of the Devil. Technician! Can you fix her?"

Infinity nodded, wide-eyed: Fix me, d-d-do.

He offered them both what appeared to be blank credit cards made of clear plastic, with a slightly blue tinge, a tad more substantial in thickness.

The lovebot dropped her arms, her jaw dropping, eyes popping for real. Biomechs! Shiiiiit! Shit yeah, baby! In one succinct move, she leapt over and snatched hers up.

"Take it easy, b-b-bookish," Kim reeled off smoothly, calm-calm eyes selecting, locking onto target. "If they find out, they'll only confiscate them," he told Lyle.

"My apologies, tykes. They're only educational."

Fin unpuffed. Ah, shucks!

Lyle brushed a hand through the air. "One hundred percent Tower okayed."

"I don't suppose they're self-projecting," Kim asked, eyes hopeful/not hopeful.

Fin waited with baited breath. Which was it? Yay? Nay?

"I thought I'd make them interesting, at least."

Fin punched the air triumphantly, dancing in a circle on the spot. She kissed the biomech card. "I love you, baybay!" she told it, misty-eyed.

"Thank you," Kim said.

Lyle shook his head. "No. It's my job."

Kim frowned, then turned to consult with Fin. She stopped wiggling, glancing at the card in his hand. They looked the same. She looked back down at hers, tipping it from side to side. Ah! _INFINITY_, it said. She shot Kim a glance.

_KIM._

She looked up to thank Lyle, but he'd already walked away, over to Angelo and Reagan. But he walked past them, too, and stopped at the coffee table. He placed the biomech card down on the table. Sighing, he nodded to Angelo and walked out.

Fin frowned, sharing a look with Kim. "What up wit' dem?"

"Mmmm." He shook his head. No idea.

They turned glances in the direction of Persephone's office. Would she let them use her crash room for a bit, if they asked? Fin clicking her fingers - _Fever_, baybay - they headed off that way.

Angelo reached for Reagan's hand and squeezed it.

.

Parker slumped her shoulders, making a face at the empty coffee canister. Crap! Crappy thing! Kinda like vacation, she thought sourly. She was through with vacation, and crappy _hangovers_.

Someone came over and got a new container of unopened instant out of the bottom cupboards underneath the bench.

"Tha-" She dropped the rest of that one. Lyle. Enemy Numero Uno. Scum brother. She grabbed the coffee, narrowing her eyes menacingly. Dzzt! Scramit!

"Do anything interesting?" he asked. _Enathing._

"Kill anyone?" she challenged.

"Maybe."

She got a spoon out of the drawer to open the coffee lid with, then dropped it on the draining board, by the sink, going for a knife. Uck! Foil stuff!

He reached over and offered her a smaller knife.

Glaring, she took the paring knife and put the other one with the spoon. "Maybe," she said, not giving anything away. She glared at the coffee container and hacked into it. "Be afraid!" she hissed. "When that vampire Cox steps into the room, be very afraid! Man's a serial caffeine addict, if ever one existed! He needs CA, badly!" Lifting it with the knife, she yanked on the metal foil, to detach the last little bit from the rim of the container, and dropped it in the bin. "I could totally be a surgeon! Take that, coffee-a-holic!"

"Frankie issues?" Lyle asked, with a frown. Yeah, um... different.

She rounded on him, knife in hand. Disappointingly, his expression didn't change. Without taking her eyes from his, glaring fiercely, she pulled the drawer out and returned the knife, dropping it on top of a bunch of spoons. She snapped it closed with a bang. "What's wrong with my legs?" she snapped, randomly.

"Nothing," he told her.

She widened her eyes sarcastically. "You haven't ogled them once! Either there's something wrong with them, or there's something wrong with _you_! Who the fuck did you kill, psycho!"

He glanced down at her legs, sighed, met her eyes. "Eat something."

Wide eyes filled with anger. "Speaking, bitch!" she spat.

"There's a slight difference, babe. You're a woman. Makin' like a stick doesn't suit chicks. Ever." He leaned to the side, shook his head. "Need I say more."

She glanced behind her, at her backside. Pulled a face. Oh! What? "I mean to fix that, pronto!" she scowled, throwing him a death glare.

"You'd wanna," he replied. "You're starting to resemble our dearly departed mother more and more each day."

"Bitch!"

He tossed his head. Hey, coming from her, even _that_ was looked upon gladly.

She tugged her miniskirt down at the back. "It's your fault! If you hadn't fucked off to Crazy Fuck Land, I might have said 'Yes' the next time you asked me out! I could have _eaten_ something!"

"Damn it! How 'bout it, babe? I'll pay."

She touched his neck. "She do that?"

"Who?" he asked, feigning innocence.

"Who do you think, stoopit!" she scowled. "The girl you done in!"

"Did I?"

She prodded his bruise, with a little grin on her face. Taking back her hand, she stepped away from him. "Man toy!"

He laughed, widened his eyes. "So what!"

She laughed hysterically, pointing.

"You're just jealous you didn't get none," he snapped.

She shut up. "Eww!" She whined. "Don't tell me it was to impress Syd!"

He choked, hand on his chest, an aggrieved look plastered to his face. "You! Accusing _me_ of traumatising _you_! Oh God! That's never gonna come out!"

She bit her lip, grinning. "Girl power!"

"Meanie!"

"Can I watch it?"

He closed his eyes. "Ewwwww!"

She laughed wickedly. Score, baby! She went to put the water on.

"Do you one better, if you like," he said, from right behind her.

She spun about, pushing her hands out in front of her to shove him away. "Step on me and I'll squish into a bloody mess on the floor!" she snapped. "Won't be showing me anything then!"

He smiled. "Deal?"

She narrowed her eyes, darting them away, for a second, checking the door. Clear. She returned them to his face. Stop smiling, freak! Won't make me trust you more one little bit!

He sighed gently.

"Okay! Fine!" She lifted her chin. "Show me."

"Yeah?"

"Yes, fuckwit," she told him, so not drolly.

He smiled. "Eyes closed."

"I hate you!" she scowled, shutting her eyes. She couldn't help kicking herself. What kind of deep trouble had she just gotten herself in for? And why?

The last thing she felt, before she was whisked away into the not-so-distant past, was someone pressing a kiss to her forehead. Under the circumstance, it felt kind of comforting.

Then it hit her. Bam!, brick wall.

Awaking from her own little horror show trance (that she'd asked for), she laughed faintly, lurching at him wildly, gripping his arm with both hands. "Let's just stay away from that one, in future, hey!" she breathed, trying to make it a bit funny.

He shook his head; why? "I like her," he offered his opinion.

Her face contorted. "She..." she forced the rest of that thought out, "bites people!"

"I know," he shared excitedly. "Isn't she perfect?"

She let go of his arm, a little whine rising in the back of her throat. "I'm never listening to you again," she half-sobbed. She felt really weird. Creepy weird. To her horror, she couldn't help liking the girl. Empathic suggestion! That was all it was, she told herself firmly. She only liked the girl because Lyle had. A strange thought struck her, He had? Why? That one had her stumped. She started to make a list, in her head: Curvy, baby; soft, pattable hair; sharp, little teeth; cute ass; her funny eyes were kinda adorable; she had a cute way of breathing when she was happy excited; well, actually, whilst they were on the topic, all of her was kind of soft and pattable. She had that delicious little tan, so sexy...

Parker swallowed a very strange, very happy sigh. _Isn't she perfect?_ No, you dumb ass, she's a sex junkie! She's out of bounds! She quickly busied herself making coffees. Why exactly she'd gotten out four cups didn't seem to matter.

She whipped around, gasped. "Sh-sh-she's...!"

He sighed, sorta unhappily, and met her eyes. Yeah. She was. Convergence partner. Kill me now?

"Y- Wh-what are you- What are you gonna do?"

He shook his head. He was still working on that one.

She shoved a mug of hot coffee in his direction.

He took the cup, dropped troubled eyes to the floor. Why did this kind of junk have to happen now? Why her?

"You can't tell her, you know!" Parker informed. "Not even... a little bit. She won't understand. She won't _be able to_. She can't control herself. You've gotta be the strong one. Keep your distance!"

He shook his head, at the floor.

Though she was no mind reader, she just _knew_ they were both thinking the same thing. What if he wasn't that strong? What if it just took over and he couldn't stop it? "Look," she began. She fell silent.

Lyle turned around, looking up from the floor. Oh. Sydney. He bit his lip. "Thank you, Nurse Bets, you've been a true help." He slipped by Sydney, taking his coffee with him, out the door.

"Nurse Bets?" Sydney asked.

Parker shrugged, thinking fast. "Insect bite," she fibbed. "I told him he'd might as well cut the whole thing off. What does he need two arms for, anyway?"

Sydney looked relieved, to hear that that was what she'd been referring to. It was on the tip of her tongue to snap something acidic back: Why did people always think that? If it wasn't him, coming on to _her_; it was her, pissed off that he _wasn't_! What was wrong with people? And Sydney! What the fuck was wrong with him? Why did he have to go along with their sick shit?

"How was the time off?" she asked automatically, shelving her earlier thoughts. He looked well. She wondered if he'd spent some time with someone soft and adorable, too. She'd have been only too happy to have, herself, but it hadn't happened. She'd have felt cheered, a little, to know he had.

"Fine."

She didn't say anything, but handed him a cup of coffee from the sideboard. She saw his look, saw the way his eyes went to the can of coffee lying on the bench, its lid still off. _Instant. Oh. Ew. Oh well._

She forced herself not to show her disappointment. She hated making him sad. Worst of all, she didn't have anything funny to say to cheer him up, and she didn't particularly like the coffee herself. It really was kinda crap.

She sat down to sip her drink, and wondered why Lyle might have wanted to share his little discovery with her. Because she'd already met her Convergence partner. Because she hadn't lost her mind, because of it. Because they weren't together anymore. Or because it was a sweet opportunity to further his evil plan to convince her he really was her brother?

Of course it was the evil plan, she thought darkly. And to think, she'd actually felt kinda happy-ish, for a minute or two. She wondered, running on another track, if the woman was still breathing, still alive. She did hope so.

Fulton appeared, yawning, and flopped down into a chair next to Sydney's.

Parker passed her a cup of coffee, which she accepted.

"Saw your feral other half, girl," she expounded, though, really, _girl_ was a little off centre. She was younger than Parker, not the other way 'round. She sipped the coffee. Clearly impressed, she asked, "You tried that new place in the Rada Complex? Coffee City?"

Parker looked a little more lively. She hadn't. "No. What's it like?"

"Yeah. It's good. The coffee's..." Fulton rolled her eyes to the top of her head, "to die for!"

"Oh." Parker gave a little smile. "I've got to swing by there sometime."

"Do. Definitely do!" Fulton agreed, nodding. "How are you, anyway?"

"Surviving," she replied. "How are you?"

Fulton pulled an answering smile from her bag of tricks. "Surviving." She turned to Sydney. "Sydney, how are you these days?"

"These days," he replied calmly, "I'm fine."

"Great!"

He nodded to Parker. "Perhaps we could go to this Coffee City together, one day," he suggested.

She nodded back. "Sure."

"Hmmm."

"What did the skank Lyle want?" Fulton asked, at last.

"The usual," Parker replied sourly. "Ooo, a bug bit me! Can you blow on it and make it better? Oh, gross! Go bash your head into a wall, freak! I don't play touchy-touchy with that nut!"

"Good policy," Fulton said supportively. "Even if he was about to dr-"

"The dining hall has biscuits now," Lyle reported obliviously, crashing their little conversation and stamping it to death without ever having to open his mouth and say anything.

_I'd let him die!_ Fulton mouthed, to Parker.

She smiled.

Lyle put the glass jar down in the middle of the table.

"We all know the dining hall doesn't have biscuits," Fulton replied airily, killing the look of mild interest on Sydney's face dead. "We know _you_ put them there. You really think that witchy love potion shit's gonna work on any of us?" She laughed bitterly. "Don't make me purge!"

Parker grabbed for the jar, undoing the lid. She took a biscuit out and took a bite out of it. "You suck!" she told Lyle, shaking her head. "Your _love potion_ sucks!" She scratched her neck in the same spot he'd gotten his stupid bruise.

A smile beamed itself onto her face. "Hey, guess what, everyone," her eyes glittered, "freakshow's got himself a girlfriend!"

"Nice. Nice," Lyle replied, walking over to the cutlery drawer. He reached for the big knife on the draining board instead, and offered it to her. "Why don't you do it properly, sis?"

She put her half-eaten biscuit down. She took the knife off him. What was with the look on his face, like she'd really done it this time; he was sick of hoping for some kind of bond to develop between them, totally sick. _I give up._

She stood up, pushing her chair out, and walked to the drawer. She put the knife away, secretly unhappy. She'd never liked the way his moods swapped from one moment to the next, but she liked this new mood the least. He didn't even sound pissed, just, _I get it, and yeah, I probably deserve it. Hey, why don't I do you a favour? I give up._

She turned away from the cutlery drawer, forced herself to say, "Get out of here." _You're pathetic, you know! It won't last. She'll see it, too, before you know it. Then you'll be on your own, like you _deserve_, maniac!_

"Why don't I?" he replied, and walked out.

She held herself back from walking after him. It was surprisingly painful. Some kind of lingering connection between them because he'd Shared something of his with her, maybe? That had to be it, she told herself. She didn't want to think about Catherine, she didn't want to think about the scars on his wrists. Cathy had cut herself, too. But she wasn't thinking about that, she reminded herself sternly.

She sat back down and finished her biscuit, reaching for another. Now she felt like a backstabbing bitch who wouldn't think twice about abandoning her friend if it meant garnering two more, or just one more infinitely interesting friend, a friend who thought just like she did, who would _never_ challenge her decisions, who didn't piss her off or drive her up the wall. It was a sucky fucking feeling, she decided.

She wished she'd never even bumped into the lunatic that morning, wished she'd been somewhere far away, at Coffee City with Syd, her _real_ friend, enjoying a _decent_ cup of coffee and not this obnoxious bitter crap.

.

"Congrats!" Sam told him, when he'd checked in with him, explained things some. At least the Convergence thing.

"Oh, Sam... don't say it like that."

Sam actually looked surprised for a second, to hear the unhappiness in his voice. "_Finally!_ A little honesty!"

Lyle sighed irritably. "_It's not even funny,_" he muttered in Afrikaans, more to himself than to Sam. Sam acted as though he'd done nothing but lie to him all the time they'd been together. That wasn't how it had been, but that was how Sam chose to see it. Parker had palmed her Convergence off on him, no longer caring for love, at all, and he'd pretended like, shit, that was fine cos they were family, he was her lil brother.

Only now was Sam beginning to forgive Parker, and, _no_, that didn't mean he'd offer her a smile back if she smiled at him; it meant he'd give it a rest with the Diss & Death Glare Diatribe fest. For the moment. (She was still a bitch. Shit, she still refused to believe Lyle was her twin, and he seemed fine with that. He'd asked Sam not to go on about it, so Sam hadn't, but it still pissed him off. So what, they weren't together anymore, but he was still his friend. Couldn't he stick up for his mate, now? Apparently not. Princess Parker got everything she wanted. Except _him_.)

"I told Parker."

Sam's eyes snapped to his. "Why in the Hell would you do a thing like that? It's none of her Goddamn business, Lyle!"

"She's my sister," he replied.

Sam laughed, nodding. "You know what? Good luck to her! If she starts girl-crushing, that'll be her - getting her own back! Poetic justice, I say!"

Quietly appalled, "She's my sister."

Sam rolled his eyes. "She's _a bitch_!"

Lyle pointed to the door. And he could get out, if he was going to be saying things like that about her.

Sam laughed. "God, you're pathetic. I swear, when I was around to keep you in line - you weren't this freaky." He held up two fingers. Two words. "Pro-fessional help!" He shook his head, and walked out. Glad to. "Good luck with that!" he called back, from the door, and yanked it shut with a snap.

Lyle put a hand to his head, got up and started looking around for something sugary, chocolate. Nothing. He walked off, to make himself a warm drink with sugar in it, before he completely lost the ability to think straight. He still thought Parker deserved to know, given that they were twins, and what had happened with Sam when she'd rejected her Convergence with him. No way was he inflicting that on his sister.

"Are you okay, darling?" Allison asked him, seeing that his hands were shaking. She walked over, frowning in concern. "Here, let me." She took the cup off him.

"Thanks, Ali."

She smiled. That was okay.

Later, when they were sitting at one of the tables, she, in a chair opposite his, across the table, he closed his eyes and hummed _I'll Be with You in Apple Blossom Time_, didn't really care what she thought, either. _Your sister's got a bit of sweet tooth, too._ He'd never noticed that.

Ali's favourite artists - so said Cherry's website - were Rosanne Cash, Anouk, Jay Sean, Paris Hilton, Chris Isaak, Michael Bublé, Mary Mary, and George Michael (_Faith_, more than all the rest; love-love-_loved_ that one!). Most recently, she was liking Patrizio Buanne, The Winter Sounds and Girls' Generation (Thanks, Midori). If things like that had counted, they'd have been completely different, unreachable, one to the other, despite the short distance they sat away from one another, across the table.

Lena Katina's _You_ played over the radio. Allison stirred her half-empty (half-full) coffee.

He wanted to cry. He wanted to say something funny, something encouraging. He wished he could find something to say that would make her smile. Everybody gave Marsh a hard time, the way they'd done Sims, then Reston, when he'd transferred over from Bama, but Ali was okay. She was just shy, and prone to nervousness. If Jimmy had had a little sister, it would have been Allison.

She'd never had a nickname before she'd come to Blue Cove. She'd written that on Cherry's website. In her own words, it was really nice to have one. (Everyone else knew Lyle was the only one who called her it, or who ever had, but Allison didn't care about that.) She'd decided to spell her nickname with a single _l_ after that actress from the TV show, _Heroes_, Ali Larter. She liked her inner strength. It always came through in her eyes. She hoped she could be that strong, one day. It was her No. 1 Aspiration. She was going to make it her New Year resolution, next year. She'd been thinking of making it _Make new friends_, but she already had lots of friends. She was totally happy with the reaction of everyone at her new workplace. Blue Cove already felt like home to her, though she'd only been stationed here for two years.

Her lovelife sorta dragged, but she was confident she'd meet Mr. Right, in time. She just had to keep forging on, she couldn't give up hope. She'd made a list of some names she might've liked to name her kids. It began: Isaak (Zak, for short), Paris Faith, Mary, Winter, Hero, Blé, Sanne (pronounced Zan), Hilton, Michel-Luc.

Cherry, ever the tease (mean girl), had convinced her that the name of her true love began with a _c_. She'd been taking the piss, of course; _c_ for Carter Reston, the interminable player who, for all of his valiant (creeptastic) efforts, never seemed to hook up. Allison had taken Cherry's words for serious, never guessing that little connection. She'd stopped acting like maybe there was a chance for something between Lyle and her, and had been happy to just have a friend.

She started to hum _As I Lay Me Down_, as it began playing over the radio, and Lyle smiled. Catching her eyes, they sang along to it together, "_...As I lay me down to sleep, this I pray: That you will hold me, dear, though I'm far away..._"

The young woman wiping down one of the nearby tables got a funny look. Okay, that was just weird. People at their age just didn't do stuff like that, right. Sonny and Cher freaky or what! Um, _freaky_, peeps!

The song changed to Katy Perry's _Firework_. The girl straighten up. Thank _you_, Bay FM! "_...Just own the night like the forth of July. Cos, baby, you're a firework!_"

Allison giggled, smiling. Go for it, kid!

The girl grinned back at her. Well, maybe she wasn't _that_ freaky, on second thoughts. "_...Boom, boom, boom. Even brighter than the moon, moon, moon..._"

The girl, Eileen - Eilee - did Zumba, to keep fit, and was showing Allison some of her top moves when he nearly passed out, so she didn't notice. A good thing. When he could, he stood up and nodded (very carefully), explaining that he had work to be getting back to. Though it was the last thing he felt like doing, he took his empty cup back to where he'd gotten it from, and put it in the _Used stuff goes in HERE (Not in the Trash!)_ tub. It was the polite thing to do, he supposed. Besides, it was done. All done. He could leave now. Not so hard, huh. He turned around and headed for the door, willing himself to keep walking. He wasn't that _stupid_, he knew that the more you put off your negative feedback, the worse it got, and it had to come back to you sometime.

That time was now.

His leg hurt, suddenly. Surprise, surprise, nice little aftereffect of Margaret's welcome gift. He moved closer to the wall, trying not to wince too much. Man, that _hurt_. He didn't think it was broken - yet - it was just fractured, a tiny, tiny little hairline fracture that did little more than scratch the surface.

When Emily had been around, he'd been able to take a little of the connection she'd felt with him, like a shard of broken mirror, and use it to focus his attention on the present, on what was real. She was a Mediator. More than the understanding she'd tried so hard to find inside herself, it was her greatest gift. The kindest thing she could offer him. But then he'd pushed her away, and she'd been too far away, her thoughts, so far away, to connect with. She'd ceased fighting the blocks de Berg had put in place, and he'd not been able to find a way around them, he'd not been able to find her again.

De Berg's drug had been nearly flawless, her insistence to push her bag of handpicked goodies on him, strong. If he hadn't had Mel, he'd have been a writeoff. But Mel had been there, in the background, and, with Bobby's help, he'd been able to borrow some of her strength, her Pretending to focus on the facts rather than the feelings. But even that reservoir had dried up, with time. The full force of it all had hit him. He'd just been lucky he'd been able to hold out as long as he had. The negative feedback was awful now, but it was only getting worse, looking for a way to resolve itself, find an out; if it stayed in, it would kill him.

He had to let it express itself. He had no choice.

He didn't bother clocking out at the front desk, with Midori, though he was leaving early, he went straight for the car park. He wouldn't be driving home, in the state he was. He just needed to be outside, outside, amongst nature, with living things. There was a forest that lay between the Centre and Blue Cove. Conveniently, some thought. He would go there. He just needed to be outside. He couldn't fight it anymore. Quite apart from his own life, there was too much risk involved in fighting it. He could hurt someone he cared about, he could hurt Mel, or Reagan, or even Emily. Now that there was that connection between them, he had to think twice before doing anything stupid. It could easily backfire and hurt her, too.

She might have been a Mediator, but she wasn't Mel. She was his Convergence partner, not his sister. She couldn't fight their connection, and she hadn't tried, really. Instead, she'd made up a multitude of reasons for the way she felt towards him, reasons she'd have no reason to fight. Subconsciously, she'd likely known it was a bad thing to try to fight something that strong, to fight something that had had eleven years to build up to the potency it had waged against them. She was no fool. She'd been Mel's Mediator, for three years; she'd fought T-Corp and succeeded. For a little while.

The car accident had really taken it out of her. T-Corp had sensed it, too. It was why they'd let her go, with a little monetary incentive. Let her next masters deal with her. They'd not included that she'd just recovered from a major near-death incident, that she'd had a good deal of her internal organs damaged beyond repair. That she'd have been as good as road kill, had the Mysterious Healer not taken a liking to her, and Healed her up again. After administering her the biomech-disabling serum, they'd had to shelve any further plans they'd had for her. Her new parts hadn't taken to the serum with the desired effect; they'd nearly lost her, again.

They'd decided to give her up, and hoped it would be to someone who'd look after her. They didn't have the time to Heal her, the way she needed Healing. She'd have needed multiple sessions, possibly spanning years.

He was really lucky he'd had that kind of money on hand, he thought now. Lucky he hadn't killed himself coming up with that biomech-disabling serum to save his sister. He'd had no-one else to test it on, but himself, wouldn't have felt comfortable putting anyone else in that kind of peril. He'd had to purchase a few biomech tags, first, then come up with a way to disable them. As they were biomechanical, they didn't function outside the human body, so he'd had to get them in him before he could get them out. And the serum hadn't been perfected in one sitting, if that was what it could be called. The finished product had been far from perfect.

He hadn't realised it - a stupid oversight - but his sister had been pregnant, at the time. The serum would have killed Grace, if she'd taken it then. Unfortunately, the accident had finished the unborn baby off; fortunately, that had allowed her to "take" the serum, had allowed Emily to sneak it out of the hiding spot she'd stashed it away in and administer it to her, without anyone's knowing. The accident had prompted Mr. Parker to withdraw his little Angel from studies, temporarily, and before they'd realised their blunder, the girl had been long gone.

Emily wasn't out of the clear, though. They'd still had her. It was just a pity the serum had been quite so hard on her. What they didn't know, of course, was that, in order to avoid detection from the Centre, her mom had decided to put her up two grades. Though they'd thought her fifteen, she'd been thirteen, in reality. They'd tried hard, but she hadn't let them break all of her defences; she'd stayed strong, impenetrable. The model Mediator. She'd let them think they'd broken her, and then, when they least expected it, she'd struck. She'd helped Mel to see their deception, helped her to know "Molly", the alternate personality they'd manifested in her, helped her to see the danger, and they'd staged their escape plan.

But winter had been in, and, entirely without menace, had woven its own invisible trap. If not for that ice, they'd have been home and dry.

_Biotech_, he reminded himself. They were calling it _biotech_ now.

Anyway, he'd had his work cut out for him. But he'd got the kid out, nevertheless. And then he'd let her go, trusting that her family would keep an eye out for her, where it was needed, believing that they'd never let anything so traumatic happen to her again.

As usual, he'd been wrong. For all of his Empathic experience, he couldn't hold an educated guess to save his life.

They'd done their best, but their best just hadn't been quite good enough.

In many ways, she was like a little sister to him. Little sister's bail had certainly packed another kind of punch, but that had been okay. If it was for his little sister, it was worth it.

_Twenty-seven years_, he corrected himself, wincing against the pain. His calculations had been off. They'd known each other for twenty-seven years, known _of_ each other for... oh, more still. _You idiot!_ And he'd actually wondered why she'd never even tried to fight it. Shit, she hadn't even seen it creeping up behind her, it had been that gradual, almost like it had belonged there, all along.

He supposed he had that to be thankful for, in the very least. She hadn't recognised him as the one who'd come to collect her from T-Corp. He'd still been changing then, for fours years after, he'd been becoming more like Catherine's twin, less like her daughter. He'd still had those four years, maybe a little longer. And there was another thing to be thankful for. That would have looked good, if she happened to drop that one on Jarod. "Oh, yeah, and he was traitor to the company, even back then. It comes naturally to him. You see, it wasn't so illogical, Mom choosing him to be our 'spy'. It was the only logical end to things." That, would have been a serious pain in the ass.

He smiled, felt like laughing - stuff the pain - they'd never win! Never! Cathy had been right off her rocker, in many ways, and he was, too. They liked to think they'd won that battle, but they hadn't, really. And he fully intended to make his mother proud, one way or another! It didn't even bother him what she'd think of him, if she'd ever see him as anything more than a "monster"; he knew she'd have cared about him, if he'd been normal, if he'd been more like Mel. He knew, if she had any idea that he was still alive, that he hadn't died, that she still have cared about him, about that minuscule, invisible part of him she still believed to live, somewhere in there. And that was enough for him. She believed in the good things he did. That was all anyone could ask for, right.

He didn't hate her. He loved her. She was his mom. It was just a strange sort of love. He loved her because she'd loved Mel, because she'd fought valiantly, bravely, for "the right thing", right up until her last breath. Because Mel had loved her. He loved her because their father had loved her. Because her best friend, Margaret, had loved her. Because so many other people had loved her, had felt love from her in return, and, even though they'd felt heartache, too, they'd felt strengthened for all the love they'd given away; they'd felt real and human and worth something, at least. The worth they'd meant in someone else's heart, someone else's soul, had brought that feeling back to them, had affirmed it inside them, had cleared up that confusion. _Yes, you are worth it. Yes, you deserve happiness, too. You deserve an opinion, if you try; if you want one._

He loved her for all of those reasons. He still had some way to go, some things to work on. So that, one day, he'd be able to love her for him, he'd be able to love her, _just because_. Not because she was brave or funny or silly, sometimes. Not because she'd _made_ him fall in love with her, but because he wanted to love her, because he felt better for loving her, just better.

He could hurt her no more than he already had - to her, he was dead - so he figured, what the hey!, it was every bit worth the shot. Even if it turned out differently, he'd still know he'd tried, he'd still know he didn't just do nothing. Because he was alive, and he was human, and _human _didn't only mean bad things, and he was proud to be one, proud that his mother, father, sister, brother were, that his son was human. He was proud to have known something of his mother, at least, even if he didn't _know_ her. He was proud she'd believed in taking back her own humanity, and proud that she'd thought it worth it to try to help some others to do the same, along the way.

The worse thing of all was feeling like you couldn't believe in the one thing you'd been born as, a human being.

Cathy had detested that feeling, had fought against it every chance she'd got, had fought so that her children wouldn't have to feel it too. It had been every bit worth the effort, and it still was.

He wasn't giving up the fight just because he sometimes hated himself, sometimes couldn't quite believe that there was anything good left in humanity worth fighting for, because that was just a feeling, and it would pass, every day he went on living, every day he went on fighting. He was fighting _for_ the things he cared about, the things he believed in, not _against_ them, and he still believed in them. They were out there, just waiting, waiting to come to light, come back to the surface. They _wanted_ to be found. If such a thing weren't true, then he doubted anyone would every have loved anyone else. Would have needed them, wanted them, sought after them, but not loved them, because real love, real love was about more than just all those things, it was about something inside, and something outside, about something knowable, and unknowable. It was love. It lived and died and lived again. If there was someone to feel it, it felt the will to live.

If he wanted it, all he had to do was open the door and let it in.

But maybe that wasn't love, at all. Maybe that wasn't what people usually termed _love_. Maybe that was just belonging, being. Living. Maybe that was just realising you were a part of something, and not alone. Something that could be wonderful and fantastic and spectacular, and just what it was, but not always, not always awful. Just what it was.

Sometimes words were confusing, to him. Sometimes, they didn't seem to give it quite the right expression, quite the right feeling, and he couldn't find the right words to do it justice. But perhaps that was the point. Not everything can be put into words, can be given a name, can be defined. After all, a word was just a word, and a name a name, at the end of the day. A sentiment, a sentiment could grow, could live on, could lead to new sentiments. A sentiment was alive.

His ideas were all mixed up again, confused, confusing, but his head hurt too much for him to let it worry him. He just told himself pain was a terrible feeling for a wonderful thing, but not a troublesome, bothersome, unwarranted, useless thing. Pain said, "Hang on, you're going too far". Pain gave people parameters for life. Was just a feeling. Feelings could make you feel good, or, when you acted out somehow, when you abused your body, or took your life in disregard, they could be bad. Pain only acted as a warning system, and all of the good feelings, to remind you of the things you'd done right. The things that would reward you by allowing you a (if only momentarily) happy life.

Pain was his friend, today. As the saying went, your enemy's enemy was your friend. Thus was pain his friend. Complacency was life's enemy, disregard, was life's enemy, and the enemy of those things was pain. Pain yelled "Wake up". As long as he felt something, even pain, he knew he wasn't dead yet. So maybe he'd make it a little while longer.

.

Parker liked to put it this way: He's not my twin. My real twin made me feel... not alone, supported, something more than just me against the world. He made he feel warm inside. Lyle makes me feel ill, like taking a knife and cutting out his heart whilst it's still beating and handing it to him and saying, "Here. See this. This means you're supposed to die. Now _die, freak_!"

Jarod liked to put it another: Illness made you feel warm, too. Made you feel, un-alone. Most people thought that feeling uncomfortable. But then, most people would find the idea of cutting someone's heart out and handing it to them quite disturbing, also, and she seemed to find it... centring.

She would only laugh at him, then. Yes, he was right about one thing. The thought of killing that psycho bastard did centre her, because it was just that, a thought. A thought that really didn't mean much, because, the second you took someone's heart out of their body, they upped and carked it. It was no more than a clarification of her thoughts and feelings: I don't like him. I wish he'd fuck off - permanently. I really wouldn't mind if he died. I'd be happier, if he did. He really should, too. He's an evil bastard. Maybe, one day, he'll do the wrong thing, step on my toes, and I'll have a reason to off him. Hopefully, it will be one day soon. Did I mention he was an evil bastard?

She had dinner out, that night, and actually felt good for doing so. She'd been invited out to tea with Sydney, Michelle and Nicholas, because Sydney and Michelle lived separately now, and Nicholas had still lived with his mom. It was a good chance for Sydney to catch up with him. Parker, also, was happy to do some catching up of her own. Sydney didn't know it, but she'd known Nicky since he'd been a little boy. She'd watched him grow up. His mom, Michelle, had been her handler, back in T-Corp. The best one out of the lot of them, she often thought. She'd always done her best to make it easy on the girls, to make sure they got something first time, every time, so they wouldn't have to do it all over again, and suffer the pain or humiliation of doing so.

Michelle was sort of like a mother to her, in a way, and Nicholas a kid brother, or a cousin, at least. She knew that he wasn't like other people, that he wasn't even like her, but that didn't bother her. He wasn't one of those crazy Reapers. He never hurt other people. Michelle didn't, either, though she didn't have the Inner Sense, like her son had. They were both just people - good people, at heart - trying their best to live their lives and let other people do the same. After the accident, she hadn't stayed with T-Corp. She'd left and taken her son with her, and they'd had no grounds on which to stop her. She'd found herself a man and settled down. She'd done the right thing by her kid, in the end, and the right thing by herself.

Parker couldn't honestly say she felt any sort of hatred for the woman. Michelle had been to her and Mimi what Sydney had been to Jarod. The "better" handler. Whilst not exactly happy about what had been done to her, she knew Michelle had just done what she'd had to do. Neither was she happy about the kids kept at the Centre - Reagan, Kim, Infinity - even Angelo, but what did she do about it. She tried her best to stay out of trouble and not to cause them any extra trouble, and she did her job, went about her life.

It wasn't that she would say, in her defence, "You can talk", or that she was mad at herself and hated herself, "I can talk", it was just how it was, currently. You couldn't always fight. You had to settle down, sometime, and get your bearings. As lazy as that sounded, go off half-cocked and you'd be in a Hell of a lot more shit, when the shit really hit the fan. She'd learnt that the hard way.

What you wanted and wished for, weren't always the same as what you got, no matter what you put out, sometimes you just didn't get back what you expected. Oh, you got something back, but not always in the manner you wanted. Ofttimes, you got back trouble, instead. Reason was, there were other people out in the world, and they wished for things, too, they wanted things, too, and sometimes, there were more of them than you, or sometimes, they just held all the influence, and you held none. They had the pull, whilst you didn't. You didn't grab on and hope you'd be able to drag them down with you, you thought it through, found out how to get the grip you were missing, then you yanked like there was no tomorrow. Alternatively, you played the game, and fronted up with the big bucks. That really got stars in some people's eyes, and then they didn't care what danced around in front of them, or what they had to do, just to set their eyes on that kind of dough again. They'd do it all over again; they'd do near to anything. They were addicts.

Yeah, she knew all about addictions. Cigarettes were just the tip of the iceberg, for her. Her pet addiction was love-starved puppy, and sometimes love-starved puppy with a bitch of an attitude that stung like whip across your face and looked kinda like a Smith & Wesson in some crazy chick's fingernail-polished hands. Yep, that was her favourite addiction, all right, because she just kept falling for it, time and time again. Got me my cold bitch eyes, got me my love-destroyed-my-life, heart-is-ripping-out-of-my-body-as-we-speak (Or is that my soul?) drive - Get out of town, Trekkies! This cold bitch don't do warp drives - got me my boots, got me a gun - got all I need! This girl is set! Yeah, she knew how hard it was to shake a habit like that, especially when everyone around her seemed to have habits of their own. Some harmless, some not, some downright demented.

She could kid all she liked that Frankie was seriously missing a sex drive, but some days, she felt like she was missing a life drive, and she damn well wanted one, if only she could locate the right make and model!

Today, she didn't feel like that. Today, she was even willing to give Frankie a little leeway. So maybe Diana wasn't a real girlfriend, was only an imaginary girlfriend, but heck, if she made him happy, then what the fuck! She didn't buy Cherry's theories that Diana was really a guy. Cherry was Frankie's friend, but she said shit like that. Totally out of friendship, of course, because if she hadn't steered the thinking that way, towards guys instead of women, someone else would have thought, _Hey, didn't he do his kid sister in? And wasn't he sexually abusing her? That Sally woman, she even named her anti-sex fiend club after him, didn't she. K.O.K.S.! Keep Our Kids Safe! Yeah, no, I'm sure it's him. It _is_ him!_ So Cherry, the good friend, made up some ridiculously backstabbing conspiracy theory, and the blood hounds went after it like lightning, thinking it totally hilarious, and so Cox's style, the death-obsessed weirdo.

Cherry might have looked like just another skinny blonde with no complexion to speak off, and too dark blue eyes to be borrowed from Barbie, and she sure liked to gossip, but she wasn't a complete and utter airhead, either.

Not that her partner-in-crime, Plum, wasn't stupid, either. Just a sucker for the wrong kind of guy, it seemed. She had four kids and no Daddy for them to speak of. Lyle liked to make out he was their father, but that was just because he was nuts and thought it made him look... trustworthy. "Yo, check it, she lives!" The part where the kids didn't have a Dad, didn't seem to faze him. He hadn't had much of a Dad, either. That was probably just what Dads did. Skip out on their kids or beat the living bejeezers out of them. If he'd even laid a finger on them, Plum would have snapped it off faster than he could count ten; he'd obviously reckoned, _Bad idea, buddy boy._ He didn't get that it made him look like a total loser and worse, a tosser. The Tosser from Tosserville, according to some. Then there was the Player from Playerville. Personally, Parker liked them both. He was the imbecile who couldn't stop calling her Sas, so it was only fair. Sis had been hard enough to stomach, but Sas made her want to snap some of his fingers just for the _fun_ of it! So, yeah, maybe that did make her short _and strange_, but that was _after the fact_, nerny-ner! That, he'd forced on her by riling her up, to begin with. She'd been a pussycat before she'd met him.

Mostly.

"Parker."

She snapped out of her thoughts, reaching for her so-very-delicious-looking-right-now glass of expensive red wine. "Sydney."

"Earlier, you said-"

"I said?"

"At work."

"Oh. Oh, yeah. I said... that thing about Lyle, the Skank from Skankville."

Sydney shook his head.

"True story, Syd. That boy's a lying, cheating jerk. In other words, a total _skank_!"

"Sorry, I don't read _Skankology_."

She shrugged. "Neeer! Yes! Yes. About what I said. The girlfriend. Okay, so I made a big thing out of it, but... I was just relaying what he'd told me. I thought he'd be pleased, to be honest. You know, because he's such a _lady magnet_! _I_ thought he wouldn't mind all that terribly if I put the word out there that the ladies maybe start looking elsewhere, seeing as how he was 'taken'. 'Reston, now there's a great guy!' sort of thing..."

Sydney frowned, nodding. "Yes, but, aren't you contradicting yourself, just a little?"

She pulled a face. "No."

"Cheating, lying jerk."

She dropped her shoulders. Oh. Yeah. "If he didn't want me blabbing my mouth to the whole neighbourhood, then he shouldn't have _blabbed to me_, in the first place!"

"Because you're his sister and you might have inherited the skank predisposition from your father, the same as he obviously did?" Sydney asked, with narrowed eyes.

"Not quite what I was thinking, Syd."

"My mistake."

"But I like it! Mmm! I like it a lot! Raines is total skankbait! You know, _birds of a feather_..."

Sydney glanced at Michelle, who looked about ready to crack up.

Parker smiled abruptly. "Say, wasn't the weather just lovely today, all?"

Michelle laughed. "For a Delaware winter, a Blue Cove winter, nonetheless, I've got to agree. Yes, it was 'quite lovely'."

Parker nodded, smiling at her. What had she just said. Smiles all 'round, and all without a single _skank_ thrown in for flavour. Gee, the food tasted great today. How spec' was that! Awesome!

She was in a good mood!

.

Kim sunk down onto the mattress - such a nice mattress, not that he noticed - in Persey's crash pad, her home-away-from-home. Barely an arm's length away, his mother got stuck into repotting seedlings in her nursery. _His mother!_ He couldn't believe how different she looked, and how different she didn't look. What he could believe was that, even after all this time, he still missed her, he still wanted to be around her, to talk to her. He still loved her.

Then a little girl came running into view and his heart stopped. His mother had had another kid. He had a _little sister_! His mother called her Bryce. She looked about three, a lot like his mom. Not like him. He'd gotten his tan from his dad; freckles from his mom. Blonde hair, his dad. Bryce, his little sister, had brown hair, like bark, and blue eyes, like the Earth, from space. She made his mom smile.

He lay back on the bed, tears prickling his eyes, Bryce's laughter ringing strangely in the room, as though it wasn't a real room, at all, but just an imaginary room.

He stared up at the ceiling, and, as much as he was hurting, he was happy, too. Happy that his mom was happy. Happy that his little sister was happy. Happy that they still had the sky, and the air, and laughter that could ring out as loudly as it pleased and still not break against any walls, but whip through the air, freely, and scatter to the four winds, if it liked.

Closing his eyes, he thought fiercely, heart thudding against his back, against mattress, _I still think of you, Mom. I still love you. And, today, I'm going to love Bryce for the first time in her life, the first time in my life, because now I know she's real and she's alive. I'm gonna think of her, too, when I'm down and can't find a reason to smile, to pick myself up and dust myself off. I'll always have this feeling inside. _"They'll never take my love away from me!"

"Your mom's beautiful," Infinity whispered, from the door.

He sat up, smiled, met her eye.

She trailed over, shooting the happy pair glances every now and again.

Kim stood up and pulled her into his arms, holding her tightly. "You're beautiful, too, _adelfí_," he told her honestly.

She smiled, a little bit, and hugged him back. "Thanks," she whispered.

After a couple of minutes, Kim went to pick his biotech card up off the table and put it to sleep. Fin took her card out and brushed her thumb over the surface, over her name, and set it down on the table. An interactive screen came up. She skipped through the lessons, to her special extras, and selected it.

The room filled with the sounds of birds chirping, with tall flowing grass, swooshing in a slight breeze, a living thing, and dotted with gorgeous wildflowers in colours of purple, blue, yellow, and white. Above, the sky was blue, nothing but blue.

She stood staring up at the sky, her eyes wide, wide, wide, open, like her heart, almost bursting. It was so, so beautiful, she barely had words to describe how beautiful.

Kim left her side, walking to the wardrobe, and returned with a blanket. He lay the blanket down on the floor and held out his hand for her.

She dropped her eyes from the "sky", sensing that his sudden stillness meant something, and, seeing his hand, she slipped her pale hand into his. Together, they sat down on the blanket on the floor and lay down, amongst the tall grass and flowers, and when the sun began to dip below the horizon, its final exit hidden by the tall trees ringing the clearing, they watched the tiny black bats winging through the air in their funny way, fishing insects out of the air like birds scooping down through the waves to gobble down fish.

Watching those bats, the dwindling blue of the sky, the grasses and flowers hugging them turning to shades of grey, Kim holding her hand, Fin felt safe, happy. She smiled.

.

As he lay in the forest, and night played all around - Tazu had expressed her concern, had tried to motivate him to action, had not succeeded, had then lay down, too - the soft pat-pat-pat of someone else's heartbeat came to him, just as if it had drifted over on a lazy breeze. But, this time of night, there were no lazy breezes to be had, just winter's chill and the sharp snap of the air: _snap, snap_ at his skin; snap, when he breathed.

And then, there was the boy. How long it had been since he'd set eyes on him, he thought, strangely. Yes, how very long.

Then the boy was crouching down, his eyes so empty, but so full. He wondered if his eyes looked like that, too; as indecipherable as the boy's. They were the exact same shade as Mel's, but Mel's eyes were hurt, were loving, were soulful. The boy's eyes were just... eyes. In them, he could see nothing... and everything... and nothing. They looked... different in this light, like glass eyes, not real eyes. Then the boy touched the back of his hand to his cheek, and it was warm. How strange. His hand was warm.

"I have been able to for some time, now," the boy said, though he'd not asked, not questioned him. Had been able to physically manifest a body of his own, he understood him to mean, nonetheless. "It seems to me, this ability," the boy, who'd been called Bobby, continued, "is somewhat lacking in definition. Out of my control, manifesting at intervals not at all at my own choosing." He seemed to remember where he'd been raised, and spoke next, in his old accent. "Mighty brisk, out here, big brother. One would do best to take oneself indoors, before they'd taken all the brisk they can handle. Allow me. You've a home to return to, and I've none; have had none, for quite some time now. I can take that for you."

Tazu, who'd been hovering near, but not too near, wary of the teen, moved closer, eyes wide and questioning. Could he? He could do that?

"No," Lyle said merely. No further discussion needed. Mind made up.

Bobby's eyes flickered to Tazu, for a second, then back to his brother's face. "This is not a negotiation," he told him, simply.

"T-" But the girl was frozen, rugged up in cosy winter garb and frozen still, and it was too late, regardless. Darkness rushed forward, and stole his thoughts.

He woke to find Tazu knelt by the boy, the child, splattered in blood and covered in cuts and welts, bruises peeking out from under the red, empty glass eyes empty. Tazu stroked a piece of his cheek with her finger, a part not covered in blood or some other diseased-looking affliction, an odd smile quirking her lips, though her eyes sparkled with nothingness, her thoughts cloaked and hidden.

When she sensed he'd risen, she found her voice, plucked the words from the bone-snappingly cold air just as if she'd dug her hands into the black, needle-strewn earth and birthed them from the darkness. "He's kind of beautiful, kind of peaceful. I wonder... is that how I looked?"

He stood up, wincing at the pain in his leg, and quickly moved to her side, snatched up her hand.

She made a strange sound in her throat, whispered, "I never... had my own children."

He bit back the urge to say, _I know. I know all about that. All about all the things you never had, or had the chance to have._

She smiled at Bobby.

Lyle closed his eyes. He really didn't need this now. Really didn't _need_ it! What was he supposed to do with the dead thing now? He couldn't even... walk properly.

Margaret knew a little something about broken bones, after all. She'd broken her leg once, as a little girl. It had been cold then, too. Snowing, in fact. Snow, laying all about. Somewhere in the mountains, he guessed. She'd watched the snow falling and wondered, Would it hurt more if she got up now, and tried to get inside, out of the cold, or when the snow inundated her, suffocating her, snatching away her last glimpse of those beautiful spiralling snowflakes, like ballerinas made of ice? She wondered, Will I die now? She'd always liked the snow up until then, had always liked the quietness of winter. She'd only been six, then, but it had changed something in her, waiting out there, alone, had changed her; the stillness of it all, had spoken volumes to her. Volumes she was still now deciphering.

She'd been such a quiet girl, until then. She'd always moved in low gear, considering the multiple angles, multiple viewpoints, she was really dealing with, quietly pondering the hand available to her.

Tazu quietly hummed _Worrisome Heart_, stuck out her hand, jiggled small, slender fingers. _I need a hand..._

"He's dead, Tazu," Lyle told her, slightly annoyed. Of course he was. How could she not see that? _She_, of all people! "Tahz!"

She waved her hand at him dismissively, went right on humming.

"Tazu, for God's sake!" Had moved away, now made to hobble back over there.

She shot to her feet. "If he was dead, don't you think he'd have zapped off back to where he came from, in the first!" she said, with careful restrain.

"He's dead," Lyle repeated.

"He's a kid!" she hissed.

_No, he isn't_, he felt like snapping. _He's as old as I am! Well, not _now_ - but he was!_ He swallowed that thought. "Don't you think I've done this before!" he snapped, instead. "I killed my best _friend_!"

Tazu rolled her eyes. Oh, how old was that one, anyway! Pathetic! She shrugged. "We can't just leave him here, like this. It's not dignified. Need I add," bring on the sarcastic eyes, "What are the cops gonna think?"

"Kid never had a speck of dignity, to begin with," he muttered darkly. "And I don't mean just to leave him here. We need to do something with the body. That's all it is now. _A body!_ It's dead! It's not a living being anymore! What the Hell does it need dignity for?"

"He doesn't need a reason!" she snapped back, in brittle, angry tones.

"_It_!" he hissed.

She stormed over and bunched up a hand, punching him in the shoulder. "He's your little brother!" She'd been about to say _you!_, but she'd refrained at the last moment. Lyle thought of Bobby as a younger brother, an alternate personality. In any case, _little brother_ was probably the right word, to give his "body" the proper respect.

"Calm down, Tazu," he said, resignedly. The best part of him was gone, dead. He wasn't even a person, now. At least, not in the metaphorical sense. He was, but he wasn't. Without Bobby, living didn't even mean the same thing; Mel, didn't mean the same thing. He'd let her down, he'd "killed" her brother. He didn't _deserve_ to feel anything towards her!

He closed his eyes, a tear slipping hotly down his frozen cheek. He resented the warmth, would have given anything to trade places with his brother, would have given anything if it could have been Bobby crying, instead of him.

He'd killed Mel's other half!

He fell to the ground, his pain no longer meaning anything, and cried. He'd failed! He'd Goddamn failed! He hadn't gotten Mel her family back! He'd failed! And now he'd just killed her twin! He'd always thought, if he could just make Mel happy, if he could just do that, then maybe Theodore would come back, would come back "home", to his family. Now, that would never happen.

He may as well have been dead.

.

"I thought Bobby killed Jimmy," Tazu said, finally, lying on the ground beside him and staring up at the wide, black sky.

"No. Bobby never would have hurt anyone. He let so many people hurt him, and never hurt them back. It wasn't in his nature."

Tazu sighed. "You're the same person, Lyle. He's not really-"

"Stop it! Just... stop, Tahz. We are not the same person. We never were. Some people think that alternate personality's are really separate spirits. Did you know that?"

She rolled her eyes. "Shit, boy, there's your answer right there! You're not Bobby's alternate personality; you're his _successive_ personality! Not the same thing. Besides, I don't believe that is always the case. Sure, I'll acknowledge it _may_ be possible, but it's not going to be every single time!" She puffed her breath out, "I swear, L, you're so high maintenance. What is it with you, every Goddamn week - another identity crisis!" She turned to glance in Bobby's direction. Yep, still there.

Lyle took her hand. "Tazu, I'm sorry I hurt you."

She sighed. "You didn't hurt me, L."

"Yeah, but I did."

"Yeah, but you didn't."

"I d-"

"Okay. Okay! Fine. You did. No sweat, bub. I forgive you."

"You-"

"I just did."

"That's not-"

"I just did," she repeated. "Look, you're not some psycho freak who just invaded Parker's brother's body for kicks! Even if you want to believe this... separate spirits theory, you did it to help Bobby, not to... to take over his life!"

"How do you know?"

"I don't, okay, but I trust you."

"You trust me? You trust a psychopath? A serial killer? Well, you shouldn't."

"Well, it's my choice! Loads of people believe in doctors, loads of people _trust_ them!, with their lives!, so why shouldn't I trust you, psycho? People they don't even know! People they don't even know anything about - practising something they wouldn't know diddly _squat_ about! And why? Why? Everyone just assumes, Oh, sure!, they're intentions must be-"

"They're taught to believe the doctor," Lyle breathed.

"Rubbish! You know as well as I do that you can lead a horse to water but you can't make it drink if it doesn't _want_ to!"

"There are ways. And why wouldn't you want to? Everyone you care for, your parents, your brothers and sisters, your friends, your grandparents and uncles and aunts, they all believe the same thing. Are you just going to say, no, they must be wrong? Are you going to tell them so, if it means they'll care for you less?"

She rolled her eyes. "If they don't value your individuality, then they're nuts!"

"Lots of parents don't value their children's individuality, their ability to ask questions. They can't stand it. They-"

"Kids are just robots, right, and when they start to think for themselves, it's, like, the world's biggest crime! Talk about a ripoff, mate! Glitchy much! What kind of fools must their parents be, to buy something faulty like that! Darn fools! Must get that seen to. Must fix that. What's the use of a machine if it doesn't do as it's told? _Nada, amigo!_ Useless junk!"

He sighed.

"Note the sarcasm," she muttered darkly.

"Doctors are people, too. They're indoctrinated the same way we all are."

"Bullshit! They work in the fucking field, you'd expect them to have a _slightly better_ idea about it than the average person on the street! Don't give me this indoctrinated crap, okay. There's no excuse for killing kids!" She shut up.

Wasn't she some friend, huh? There must have been something she could have done, in the past, something she could have done sooner to clear up some of his confusion. She hadn't even tried. Why? Why not? It wasn't as though she had a lot of other friends, now. In fact, with Thomas, Kyle, Brigitte, farmer boy (Jimmy), Chiyo (poor baby) all gone, he was her _only_ friend.

Did she have to wind him up? Had she had to talk about people offing kids? No! The answer, in reality, was _no_. But she couldn't keep her trap shut.

And now he was crying. For whatever reason, didn't interest her. She felt like crying, too.

"Why didn't they kill me? Why didn't they stop me? Why can't I just... die!"

Again, with the self-putdowns! There was something wrong with a person who was constantly - serially - devaluing their existence, she thought darkly. Something very wrong. "That's not how it works," Tazu told him. "You've still got things to do, stuff to contribute."

"The evil stuff, you mean," he whispered.

"No! You idiot! I mean... making it up to yourself! If you don't like the way things have gone so far, change them!"

"I can't."

"Shut up!"

"I can't."

She yanked her hand back. "_You!_ Don't talk to me!"

"Tah-"

"Sss't!" She was being mean and she knew it, but she couldn't see any other way. If she wasn't hard on him, he'd just do it himself. He had real self-esteem issues, much as the rest of his family had had.

"I'm sorry, Tazu."

She didn't say anything back; couldn't face the thought of starting a fight. She wasn't that strong, either. He wasn't the only one, she thought. Though it should have been so easy, she couldn't do it, "for a good cause", or not. People were always flying off the handle for lesser reasons, and here was a real reason, a real wake-up call, and she couldn't do it. How typical, she thought. It was like mass hysteria, spread like wildfire. She wondered if he'd given it to her, or her to him, or if they'd both just picked it up from the rest of them. Vicious circle much?

.

She'd had a good evening, all in all, Parker thought, as she hit central locking and headed off, across the underground parking for the elevator. She'd enjoyed herself, got out of the house, _eaten_ something! And it was good to see Syd catching up with his boy, in honesty. Family meant a lot to Sydney, even if the boy was his only living relative left, his son.

She smoothed down the front of her skirt, stifling a smile. Yeah, sometimes she wished she could- She stopped, frowning at the dark, sticky something she'd just stepped in - Oh gross! - and looked around, looked like it had come from-

She took out her cell phone. That wasn't cute. Not at all. What made it even less cute was that people would expect her to be upset about it - Who could have done a thing like that? What were all of the security cameras for if all they did was... look fancy and do shit all? He's- was your brother, right? You, ah, you were twins? - and, to be honest, she was a little bit upset. The freak had no right ruining her good mood like this! The fucking asshole!

"Get down here!" she said, into her phone, doing her very best not to snap. Brown could come and collect his loony patient; he had no right just... sitting there freaking out the rest of the workers. Dead or not, it was below par! Way below par!

.

The second he got the news from Brown, Raines took the elevator down to SL-9, where Brown had said he'd be... with the, ah, body. With great difficulty, Raines had refrained from hissing darkly, "He's a Reaper, you imbecile! I don't care if a Goddamn lorry hit him! We're not that easy to kill - and you damn well know it!" Brown was a Reaper, too, and thought him a Reaper (which, of course, he was, just not exclusively). The point was, Brown should have known better! Better than any of them! He'd been a Reaper for some 200 odd years, nearing on 300 years, Raines imagined, now! It was a dodgy bloody deduction for him to make that the kid was definitely, absolutely dead! Even if they both knew he couldn't Heal himself the way Reapers regularly did! Even so! He'd never have left Mel in the lurch like that. Not ever! He'd never done so before, and he'd had_ plenty_ of opportunities. It just wasn't plausible!

He stalked into Autopsy and threw Fulton a glare - Brown was waiting inside the door, pretending everything was okay, nothing sus with this picture at all, Fulton, yapping away into her digital recorder, but everything's fine! Raines felt like slapping Brown one. He didn't.

Ignoring the Tower doctor, he went straight to the gurney and collected up the "body", carting it off with him.

Affronted, Fulton called after him, "Excuse me. You can't take that with you. Hey! It doesn't leave this room, do you hear me? Hey! Hey! Get back here with my cadaver this very instant, Director! Dr. Brown! Dr. Brown!"

At the door, Brown stepped in his way. "Liam, see here-"

"_Keep your crap to yourself, Arvalis!_" Raines spat in Welsh. "_I'm not in the mood!_"

Brown glared at him darkly. "_I watched them burn my mother at the stake, you inconsiderate ass! My _mother_! Nothing I could do! Don't _you_ tell _me you're not in the mood_!_"

Biting back a growl, Raines shoved him out of the way with his arm and stormed out of the room.

Fulton, for once, had the good grace to keep her mouth shut. Apparently, the famous buds had had an argument, and Brown was quite pissed, by the looks of it. Best to lay off, she decided, only a little melancholy that her cadaver had been stolen from her by her lunatic boss.

Stifling a sigh, she left her digital recorder on the gurney and took off after the loon. It was obvious the fruitcake had been... offed elsewhere, then dumped in the garage to be found. For one, though he'd sustained a Hell of a lot of lacerations, his clothes had been untouched, not one tiny little cut on them. If that didn't smack of _boy got what was comin' to 'im_, she didn't know what did. "Sir, you're compromising the evidence! I don't think you want to do that! Sir, the Tow-"

The elevator doors whoosed shut after him.

She gave up. Crazy man! Goddamn crazy man! What was he going to do with the body, anyway. Take it to the Tower and bitch about how it was so unfair. Why did all of his kids keep dying? Where were their great Tower Healers? Where the Hell were they?

"Good luck with that, sir," she breathed, planting a hand on her hip. He was gonna need it. The Tower only cared about one thing: _numero uno_. Themselves.


	9. Chapter 9

Charming as the idea had been, the reality was always less so, she told herself. The fake twin hadn't died; she hadn't gotten rid of him yet. She couldn't think of anyone less deserving of being a Reaper! Not even the Reapers of T-Corp, the ones who'd still been learning to master their abilities, measured up to her so-called freak of a twin for sheer psycho-ness! She'd wanted him to be dead. She'd wanted the nightmare with the freak to be over.

She never got what she wanted.

At least he hadn't got off that easily, she thought to herself. It had taken five months for him to heal up enough to leave Med Space. Five months of reprieve, she thought, before everything went back to normal - back to Hell. But some things weren't ready to go back to normal.

The scars hadn't gone away, and, worst of all, for him, she supposed, she could sneak up right behind him - if she was careful and remembered to Block herself to his Empathic voodoo - and he'd never even notice her coming. That one made her want to smile. Somehow, freakshow had done it again, landed himself in another mess he couldn't find a way out of.

It was good news for her. Very good news. No way in Hell was Courtland gonna let some deaf person on Field with them. No way in Hell!

The broken bones had healed, the cuts and bruises. Aside from a thin scar over his right cheekbone, and a tiny, little one under his right eye, a great, hulking ugly one along the side of his face, from his temple to his jaw, nobody would be able to tell there was anything wrong with him, that he'd very nearly died.

She thought it made more sense, that way. Poetic justice, hey? The freakshow didn't deserve sympathy. It had been a little creepy to see him all cut up like that, all of the blood - she'd immediately thought of Catherine, of Edna, and, of course, of Thomas. Shit like that freaked her the fuck out! But she'd gotten over it. Tommy, Edie, Cathy - they'd all been decent people. Underneath, even selfish Cathy had had unselfish reasons, too; reasons that looked good for, _It happened to me, I don't want it happening to my kid, too_ but also fit perfectly fine with, _No kid should have to go through that. No matter what._

There were no redeeming sides to Lyle. The fact that he'd suddenly learnt how to shut his mouth - didn't count! She had a gripe with him, with something he'd shown her about his _so-called_ Convergence partner - that, _yes_, had taken that long to register, to process fully - that had got up her nose! She was sure, now, that he'd only been winding her up, taking the Mickey. The woman - so-called woman - had a little sun tattoo on the underside of her right wrist, so perfectly similar to Mimi's, that it can't have been anyone other's. And her eyes - were definitely Mimi's eyes. However he'd found out about her friend, he was gonna wish he _had_ died, by the time she got through with him! Mimi was dead! Nobody messed around with her dead friend's memory like that!

Unless they wanted to end up on the receiving end of a little tender loving care from her two good friends Smith and Wesson, of course.

.

It wasn't so bad, he supposed. A relief, in a way. At least, now, he looked like himself. Sort of... He didn't look so much like Catherine's twin now. Not exactly as he'd meant to have looked, perhaps, but a little more like his own person. More than that, a part of him was glad people would be able to see his scars. Not so pretty anymore, he thought. That would give them some pause for thought. Sure, it had opened a couple of doors for him, over the years, but so would have had other things, such as having a Goddamn personality, a little perseverance and dedication to a cause, even.

No, it wasn't a bad thing at all. For the first time in a long time, it meant he'd have to find another way around those troublesome dilemmas; he'd have to get off his ass and actually try. It meant, _Yes, I have something to say._ People wouldn't just think, _How can I use you?_ Of course, they would still think it, but not... not like that anymore. He was hoping, anyway.

He was sick of that shit. Sick of it to death, the way Mel was sick of it. He'd give it a rest hassling her about it, now, he decided. He had a good reason, now. No way would she want anything to do with someone like him. He might as well have changed his name to Plain Unsavoury, because that was what everyone was going to be thinking, from now on, when they saw him. It would have been no big sacrifice. His name had never really meant anything to him, anyway. Names were just words; they meant something, of course, but their meanings were tied to objects, to usefulness and valuableness. He wasn't an object. He didn't care about any name. He just wanted someone to care about _him_. Not what he looked like, not some crappy name he'd been given, or had appointed himself - just him.

Sure, Tazu cared, but he always wished she wouldn't. She was wasting her time with a freak like him. If she'd just move on, who knew who she'd meet, one day. He wished he could just... just tell her to rack off, just to get her to leave, to move on. He felt so much like he was holding her back. Holding her back from her destiny, from better, brighter things. He didn't want her to care about him if it meant not living, if it meant staying miserable.

He didn't deserve someone like her for a friend. He never had.

He kept letting her down. It wasn't right.

.

"Did you sleep well?" she asked, now. "You're looking better."

She was trying to be nice. He did look better, he knew that. Better than he had a couple of months ago, anyway. Not as good as before, but still: better.

"_It doesn't hurt, so it's no bother really_," he told her, in Japanese. She never had anyone to talk to in Japanese anymore. "_How are you?_"

"Fine. As always," she answered, in English. She wasn't so sure he'd do very well lipreading in Japanese, to be honest, and she liked talking English when everyone else was. Even though he was the only one who could hear her, she thought it was the right thing to do. Outside his room, she could hear everyone carrying on their conversations in English, and she wanted to, too. At home, it wouldn't have mattered if she'd spoken in Japanese, English, French, even Latin, if she'd been able to, and she'd been understood, but when she was out with other people - if she'd been alive - it would have been the right thing to do, she thought. A language was just a language, after all. People all felt the same feelings - love, hate, failure, success, care, tenderness, happiness, sadness - a language was just a way of trying to put those feelings into words. It really didn't matter which language you chose, as long as you were understood. As long as it had all the words, there was no difference between one or the other. Each was spoken by people, like any other people, and each had its own history that meant something to its people, but people weren't born with a language, that, they acquired. They were born as part of the Earth, as citizens of Earth and part of the human species, part of all living things.

If other people were talking English, then she'd talk it, too. He was only trying to be nice, talking to her in the language he supposed she felt most comfortable talking in, but she'd gotten used to English. She actually quite liked it. The words she liked most of all were the tender, caring ones; the loving ones. Sometimes, she'd just hang out some place, just to watch strangers hug, or laugh together, or to watch a couple talking quietly, Sara (pronounced Sah-ruh), Miss Parker's neighbour, talking to her dog, Frankie, or her parents on the phone. She wasn't like some people, who yelled at their parents on the phone, or just wanted to get it over with as quickly as possible. She talked to her parents like they were people; caring, loving people. She didn't shrug them off. She was really a nice person. Parker thought she was a bit funny: she had that dog - Frankie, she'd named him - who she took running with her, and she was a Manchester United fan, for absolutely no reason, or maybe because she thought the guys were hot (she'd never asked).

Sometimes, Tazu even went around to see Miss Parker. Mostly, not for long, because her negative energy was quite draining, but for a little while. She wasn't as bad as some people thought. Tazu never told Lyle this, though. She didn't want to... Well, she wasn't sure how he'd react, so she just didn't bring it up.

She'd always wanted to meet Jarod - Kyle's older brother - but she never had. Or Ethan. She'd have loved to meet Ethan. He always seemed so sad, when Lyle talked about him. She wanted to give him a big, squishy hug. And there was a sister. Emily, Lyle had said her name was. She liked strawberries and lavender and she was always thinking up some other question to bug someone with. Then there was Charles and Margaret, Kyle's parents. Tazu always wondered what they'd be like.

She frowned at a box of cassette tapes.

"They're for Ali," Lyle told her, in English, finally.

"That's nice of you," she said.

He shook his head. Not really. It was the easy way out. A way to say, "I don't think it's a good idea if we stay friends anymore." It was the cheap, mean thing to do.

"How do I sound?" he asked, suddenly. "Do I sound okay? Can you understand me, I mean?"

She nodded. "Sure. You sound the same as always."

He patted her arm, thinking about going for her hand, and changing his mind. Way too bad-news comfort.

"Why do you bring it up?" she asked.

He smiled. Oh, no reason.

Couldn't help it, she supposed. Had resisted the urge to pat her hand, had completely overlooked how obvious that smile was. She smiled back, pretending nothing was wrong. When he felt like telling her, he'd tell her. He was her best friend. He'd told her loads of stuff she'd never have told anyone, dead or alive.

He hummed _Layla_, a song she'd heard sung by Igor Beliy and Evgeniya Slavina, and she thought of far-off, distant places, covered in snow, and the sky above, so, so clear.

She felt sad, though she didn't know why. She sat down, on the bed, beside him, and rested her head on his shoulder. She wished he'd hum something else, _Put Your Records On_, maybe. Just... something else.

A nurse she'd never met before came in later, and she wanted to ask the nurse what was in those pills she was giving her friend, because Lyle didn't ask, but the nurse couldn't hear her. She felt so sad then, she wished she could have gone to anyone else (just not the kid) to ask for their help. She'd have gone to Parker, if she'd thought she might have been able to get through to her. The woman was like her friend, too, just a friend who lived in a separate place and time, a friend she'd never meet, though she regularly thought of her, regularly drew strength from the things she'd said, the things she'd done, who felt sad for the sad things that had befallen the other woman, and happy for the happy times she'd had.

When Lyle left Med Space and went to find Allison, Tazu stood back and watched. She didn't want to hear the sadness in the other woman's voice, hear her tears. But Allison didn't cry, she was pretending to be strong, as though that might change Lyle's mind. _I don't care, I can take anything, as long I have my friends to stand by me._ Maybe he would change his mind, maybe he wouldn't. Tazu hoped so. But he didn't then. He walked away and didn't pause or turn back once.

"I'm sorry," Tazu whispered, almost without whispering at all. Tears stung her eyes, but she didn't cry either. She wanted to run after Lyle and say, "Don't push her away! She's a friend! She won't ever turn her back on you, if you don't turn yours on her!"

She stayed right where she was.

How stupid was that? A ghost, _crying_, holding back tears? It was so stupid, she wanted to laugh.

.

The chairman had ordered him to take some time off. "Not again!" he wanted to say; wanted to be sick. Right now, he just wanted to do something, to get some work done. But Courtland wouldn't hear of it. He spoke his piece, then sent him out of his office. He didn't ask what he thought of the idea, just assumed he'd be all for it.

Redundantly, he'd handed him a letter to read outlining everything he'd said, in absence of an interpreter, hadn't been sure how to get through to him, now that he couldn't hear him.

Lyle had had to explain that he could lipread, and, yes, he did know sign language. Unfortunately, Courtland didn't, hence the frustration at not having an interpreter handy. Lyle had a feeling he made the other guy nervous, this new... problem made him itchy. He didn't know what to do with him anymore. He could still do tech stuff, computer stuff. Translation. There was lots of stuff he could still do, but maybe the Tower didn't really trust him, anymore. He got himself into that sort of trouble, he wasn't trustworthy.

They hadn't hinted at anything like that, but he knew it was there, in the backs of their minds, niggling, niggling away at them, at every thought concerning him. Maybe they thought he was - had been - the T-Corp mole, but that he'd gotten himself in hot water there by trying to play both sides against each other. He was waiting for it, but, so far, nothing. He didn't know what to think. His Empathy was virtually non-existent. Sleeping, it seemed like. He had no idea why, but he didn't like it. He just hoped it wasn't lasting. How could it be? Could it?

His office in Sweeper Space had been handed over to someone else and his stuff moved temporarily to storage. He hadn't had anything to say about that. What was there to say? A Tower tech had been given his R&D post. He hadn't done so good on that last test, huh? His Empathy wasn't working, but the worst was the brain thing. Wasn't working up to par, apparently. What could you do?

The end of the letter let him know the chairman had appointed Parker as his designated driver - and there was to be _no_ excuses from him! Yeah, they _suspected_ him! Suspected him like Hell!

.

She'd put away her crazy driving, for a couple of hours, and now they were in some other town, some other place that seemed just a little bit pointless, pointless like the rest.

The motel: "I'm... I'm no good to them anymore. I've not lived up to their standards, all of their grand expectations. That last test, I got nothing, but they... they were so disappointed. I didn't have to Read them to read the signs. Nothin', nothing's as it should be, anymore. Empathy's not working, deaf as a doornail, _tres_ trustworthy with the face! The only reason they sent me off on this little 'reprieve' is because they think I'll run off to all my little friends in T-Corp and squeal to them about how unfair it all is, and beg them to help! 'Please, please help me! If you have any mercy at all - do something! Just do something! It's my life on the line here! You've no idea the things they do to people - the horrible, _horrible_ things! The experiments!' It's not out of kindness, that's very obvious. So I guess it's gonna have to be the upgrades, then. I'm lucky, I'll get eight years. I should say, if I'm lucky, they'll kill me on the spot! Bam! Dead! 'Next!'"

Parker didn't look impressed. All the time he'd been going on, she'd stayed silent, expressionless, but now she looked unhappy, almost upset. However fucked-up the Tool was, she couldn't escape it, couldn't disagree: upgrades were barbaric. Now, she was thinking, _Not even my worst enemy._

Lyle looked away from her; had made a point to look at her, to meet her eyes, but had to look away now. That was all the truthful honesty she'd get out of him today. No way was he fucking up the moment - this tiny, almost not-enemies moment - by blurting out a load of crap about really being her brother - but _really_! It didn't matter. So they were brother and sister, in body; in spirit, he doubted anyone was any more related to any one person than they were to the next. He had no business being selfish like that. Shit, maybe he'd score himself a good run, in another life. Maybe they'd meet again, and even though he'd never remember, it still sounded pretty good to him. He'd like that.

He sighed. "On to other matters, I can get you Reagan, if you're interested. You can take him and leave, never come back. They'll never let you have him, otherwise. Property of the branch; chairman's decision what happens to him, what doesn't. You'd be... you'd be giving him the chance he deserves, the chance every kid deserves. I know you'd never do anything to intentionally let him down. You're not that person. It's shovey of me, coming out with something like that, all of a sudden, as though I know you, and you don't... you don't have to agree with me, but I know you're not a monster. You try your best. You do _try_. I can't knock that. Not me. Hardly any of us, in fact. Not that it's a competition. It's not. Nothing like that. But if you want to, the offer's there." He looked back to her, finally, away from the window and all of those parked cars, gravel out in the lot. Met her eyes. _Not like mine. Not like mine at all. A good person's eyes. Underneath, they've always been a good person's eyes._

"Do you think it'll hurt?" She was being considerate, he didn't ask for it, but she seemed to want to say it, anyway. She wasn't being cruel; she was offering him an avenue. _Maybe we can talk awhile... If you like. Like people. You and me, both just people._ A part of him wished she wouldn't, wished he could say something mean, or inappropriate, to get her off the topic, to make her mad at him, again. He didn't want to see her hurt over him - the Goddamn scumbag! She didn't notice, though, and he wouldn't have wanted her to, either.

"I don't know." Lie. Lie, lie, lie! All his life, they'd hurt him in one way or another, those damn upgrades, the Colony, as he'd dubbed them/it. But they were a part of him, too. Indelible, undeniable. In many ways, they were as close to family as... as Mel was, as Mira was, as his son, Reagan was; as Jarod and Kyle and Angelo had been. William, Sydney, Broots, S-Sam, Frankie, Cherry and Plum... Jimmy, Tahz, Kiku, Nyoko, Mal, Midori, Lucy. His adoptive parents, Grandpa Joe and Grandma Lori. There'd been so many of them, over the years. Every year, it seemed, there were more, but they never really knew him. He'd never have allowed it. Couldn't... couldn't do it. Now, he'd be... be leaving, and, he thought, hopefully they'd be moving on, on to brighter, happier lives. (The ones who still had lives; were still alive.) He sure hoped so.

"Nah! It'll be... a good thing! Lately, I've started thinking, _Shit, pain's just... just doesn't matter!_ It hurts, I'll know it does matter. I'm still alive!" He hated that he sounded so upbeat, bit back the urge to add, _Amen to that, sister!_ He was just... just being a pain. Should've... shut it. Now she'd think he was worried, worried enough to try to reassure himself with a falsely bright attitude, to try to reassure _her_, even, as though this might, in turn, help to convince him, too. What an idiot! Jerk!

He smiled, suddenly, met her eye. "Look at you! Sitting there - all dejected, like it's the end of the world!" He felt sick, just couldn't force himself say something dumb about how hot it made her look, opted, instead, for the patronising card. "I think someone needs a hug!" Heck, there was even that added bonus - _Creep wants to touch me up! Ew!_

"Yeah, I guess that's why they made it so shaggy," she replied, making him frown. When she saw he didn't get it, she nodded ahead of her, to the shaggy cream-coloured rug/mat adorning the floor. "Feeling a bit flat, I reckon."

She glanced at him, saw that he wasn't laughing - What's the matter? It's a funny joke, right? - and sighed. "Great, lovely. Still, I think I'll pass."

He stared at the rug. It was okay, right? It was okay if he didn't lose his head and run around whipping everyone up into... into lousy moods: _I have to go, but you know I'll be thinking of you fondly, and I'll miss you. Do try not to miss me too much; I'd be awfully sorry. No choice, though. Got to go. Tootle-loo._ It was okay because that would be worse, wouldn't it? Might have thought to give them that chance, at least, but, no, really, coming from someone like him, someone as self-centred as he was, it was just selfish. So it would be okay if he didn't? He was too tired for all that, anyway; he didn't want the bother, just didn't want to hear the words, "There's got to be some other way, some way around it"; "Oh, that's really sad. I'll miss you, too". Shit, he didn't want any of that, didn't want any part in it!

He didn't think, when he was gone, that things would miraculously "get back to normal", as though they'd been... strange, different because he'd turned up, like he was so fucking special - he didn't think that at all, he just didn't want to be a part of other people thinking shit like that, or... or not thinking it, but thinking something else. He just didn't want to, anymore.

Maybe it was the defeatist's way out, and... and it wasn't the right attitude to take, but he couldn't change it right now, couldn't stop himself from feeling it. It wasn't that he didn't believe in... in the future, _a_ future, and that things might take a turn for the better, that time just wasn't now. What was the use in getting cut up about it and taking it out on other people because his self-control was sadly lacking and his _the whole universe, heck!, the whole of existence revolves around me, me, me!_ attitude knew no bounds. _Yes, I'm alive; no, I'm not special; I'm just like every other person, animal, living thing the universe over; shit, of course we're all special, but we're not. We're _all_ special, so special's not so special, after all._ He just wanted to be... here, now, alive, breathing, and not special, more than anything, not special. _Please! Please. I'm just... this thing; this thing, sorta like you, who... who's so, so tired of special, of that whole lie, because it kills the truth - when it's _real_! - and I'm sick, and I'm tired, and I wish it would end._

_Please stop lying. Please. You'll make me cry, and I hate to do that. Tears are for pain, real, proper pain. Not this kind of pain. For this kind of pain, it's pointless. Doesn't _do_ a thing, doesn't achieve anything. Don't want to cry in front of her; don't want to upset her. Should have laughed at her joke, but, idiot as I am, I was too slow on catching on. So don't, don't._

_I don't want to think about all that now._

_Just give me a moment. Only a moment._

"Run off to your little friends, or don't," Parker voiced now, "I want an honest answer out of you."

He looked up, to the wall. _Goodbye, shaggy rug._

She didn't ask what he thought she might. He was relieved. "I want to meet your Convergence partner? Is that possible?"

"It can be," he replied. Three words. Easy. Getting it done. Ah, heck!

.

Avril Lavigne's_ My Happy Ending_ played loudly from the music store's speakers, making him feel sick in the stomach. Emily was wearing a black dress, black shoes, little red bows on their tops, red fishnets. A ruched headband sat in her hair, tiny red cats on a black background. She looked like Cleary. The kid behind the counter had on a face like he was thinking, _Groupie? Junkie? Sheesh, at her age! Crappoley, that's weird! Hey, but who cares. Wonder if she'll hook up?_

Maybe it was the make up, he thought. Too much red blush, too '80s. Or maybe it was the lacey black elbow-length gloves. It wasn't Hallowe'en; no anime convention nearby. Garb was strange. He didn't care, but he wasn't fooled, either. Knew other people would think her strange. A red zipper trailed the length of her tight black dress on one side, in place of a seam. So, no skinny red belt.

Parker had trouble not staring in horror, or sheer unfamiliarity.

The bed-hair-gone-bad 'do was... different, he had to agree. Gave her face a different depth, different dimension. Red fingernails, white rhinestones. How long had all of that taken, exactly! By goodness!

He didn't stare at her like she was a piece of ass, and nothing else. He didn't call out loudly and wait for her to turn, recognise him and come bouncing over. He didn't come up with some too-cute/kinda-pukey nickname to try to stave off Parker cluing on to her identity. He walked over and joined her by the CDs, said softly, "Emily." (Kid didn't need to know her name. _Aw! Emily the Strange! On ya!_)

Emily turned a pleasant glance on him, backed away quickly. "Holy mother of Mary! That looks off!"

He said nothing to that, but returned the pleasant expression she'd offered him earlier. "How are you getting along?"

Unhappy-looking, she replied, "Fabulously!"

He glanced behind him. "There's someone here to meet you. I thought we could all... go for coffees, or something?"

Emily's eyes slipped from his, fixing on Miss Parker. They widened.

Staring back at her, Parker's eyes mirrored her own.

Emily backed off, skittish, suddenly. Angrily, she rounded on him, "You brought _her_!"

"She wanted to meet you." He tried to think of some reason, some lie. Couldn't believe he'd not thought of it before. "She... w-wanted to talk. Emily. She's not here to hurt you, or anyone you care about, I... I guarantee you. She's a... She's not the person you picture her to be, the black-and-white bad guy."

Emily shook her head, but Parker stopped her from saying anything back when she appeared, quick as a flash, in front of her. She threw her arms around her. "_Mimi._"

Emily resisted the urge to choke, or cough, rearranged her expression. "Emily," she said dryly, shooting Lyle a glare; _Not cute, freak!_

Parker sighed, stepped back from the younger woman. "I thought..."

Emily pulled a face. "Hang on! You! Y- What is going on here, exactly? Who the Hell do you think I am? Whatever you think, whoever you imagine me to be, let me just get my piece in first, clear up the confusion. You're wrong!"

Parker picked up her hand, held onto it.

Freaked out, Emily said, "Um!" She waved her free hand in front of Parker's face. _Hello, lady! Wakey, wakey!_

Parker turned her hand over, spied the little sun tattoo peeking out from behind black lace. "You were my best friend, you know."

"Ah!" Emily threw Lyle a glare. Do_ something!_

"But you've forgotten." Parker let go of her hand, stepped back. "That's okay. Actually, it's better this way. Forget I brought it up. Just knowing you're alright is enough."

Emily shook her head. What the Hell was going on? She was way beyond confused, now, and she was shit sick of it! She wanted answers! "Look, Miss Parker, my name's _Emily_! Not _Mimi_, not _pookie_, not _Oliver_! _Emily!_"

"Yes."

Emily huffed, annoyed.

"No kids, then?" Parker asked. "Saskia?"

Emily shook her head. Then, as she was shaking her head, something happened. Something changed. Saskia. Saskia and Grace! That... that was what they were going to name their daughters, and they'd be best friends, just like their mothers. She stopped shaking her head, stared straight at Parker. _Oh God! Oh God, Gracie! Poor baby! Poor Gracie! Oh no! No, no, no._ "Melody."

"Fuck!"

Emily grabbed her hand, held it in hers. "I... I'm here now..." Tears swum in her eyes.

"Yeah, you are," Parker agreed. She smiled. "Mimi - what the fuck are you wearing?" She laughed.

Emily laughed, too. Suddenly so, so afraid. Suddenly, happy to have her best friend back.

.

They sat down at a little café, ordered coffees. Had taken a table at the farthest end of the place, up a step, on a raised spot, overlooking the traffic below through a large floor-to-ceiling window. Two other tables, up here, one a tiny little thing for just two people, a long bench seat along the back wall and another window, this time, leaner, looking out over a depressingly painted galv rooftop. Emily laughed, laughter in her eyes, shot a glance in Lyle's direction.

Parker shook her head. "Damn! Guess that blows that! Goodbye Club Only-Child! What, I've got two brothers, you got... three."

"Four, but three, yeah. We're equal. You've got three, too. Two, but three. Officially."

Parker cracked up happily. "Officially! And you say it like it's-"

A waitress appeared with their drinks.

Parker nodded, "Ta, love." Got away with it, too. _Yeah, okay, Mom. Or is that Grandma?_

"Aw!" Parker chewed her lip, looked aggrieved. "What you doin' with him, Mimi?" She waved a hand. "Forget him!"

Four, three. It was four, three. But it didn't matter. It was just good to see Mel smiling, hear her laughter. It wasn't forever, couldn't - could never- be forever, but that was okay. It was for the best. Mel got that; Emily, yeah, she got it, too.

"What are you this year? Fifty-" Emily put a hand to her eyes. Oh gosh, that sounded bad! 52. She grinned. "I will if you do."

"Will what?" Parker asked, smiling.

Emily widened her eyes. _You know..._

Parker burst into laughter, clapped a hand over her mouth. Recovering, a second later, she solemnly reported, "I'm too old!"

Emily turned up her nose, folded her arms over her chest. "Well, I'm not doing it on my own...!"

Parker sighed. "It's a nice thought, but, in reality, a bad idea."

"Yeah," Emily agreed. It was, huh.

"A bad idea for me, not for _you_!" Parker corrected.

Emily laughed. "Oh, nice! Smooth, Mel! So... smooth!"

"It's the truth."

"No."

"Come on. You always wanted a family."

Emily rolled her eyes. "Yeah, well, that was then. I'm not some rampant tween anymore."

"You were never some rampant tween," Parker replied.

Emily nodded. "There you have it."

Parker shook her head. "Forget him," she said, throwing a glance in Lyle's direction, "you're not tied to him. Who cares about him? He's not real. He's just... Don't look at him. Get out there and meet someone. You'll be surprised, honey. I promise you, you will be."

"You're not real," Emily told Lyle, smiling at him. She snapped her fingers, frowned. "Not real, dummy. Bzz! Disappear." Twitched her nose. Nothin'. She shook her head.

"You know what I mean," Parker snapped, to him.

"No, of course," he replied. "I'm, ah, I'm dishonest, a real-life compulsive liar. And that's just my good side. If you're looking for authentic, good ol' down home goodness, all that... mushy shit, that's not me, babe. Best take your custom elsewhere, eh. I ain't sellin' what you're lookin' for, for real, that's just the window dressin' to get your foot in the door. Best not to be taken in by those sorts of charms, now. Smart, good-lookin' lady like you, surely you know better."

He scratched his cheek. "You know what, young miss, now that we're on that topic, I seem to recall you saying something about _nothin' serious_. You're still young, compared to some of us. You don't want to spend the rest of your life alone. Take it from one who'd know-" he nodded to Parker.

"It's no fun, Mimi," she told her friend. "I know how hard it's been for you, but it's not time to give up, yet. Not for you. I... I'm not giving up, either. I'm just... taking it easy."

"'Taking it easy'," Emily repeated scathingly, to show just what she thought of that idea. She glanced at Lyle. "I like how you just... did that, before. Tried to cover up for Mel."

"I ain't coverin' up nothin' for her," he replied easily.

"Oh, yeah, you are. I'm not some dill-brained airhead, as you said. Whatta you think?" She looked at Parker; this question was meant for her.

"_He_ thinks you're his Convergence partner," she dobbed. "I think he's just being an asshole, evening the score with Jarod by getting back at his family, the people he cares about most."

"Is that honestly what you think?" Emily asked, ignoring Lyle, though he'd not changed his expression; it was just as calm as it had been before.

"He's proved himself more than capable of it, time and time over; I can take a hint. And you _know_ he has the means!"

"And he's me fooled, as well, I suppose?" Emily asked.

"You're as human as any of us, Mimi," Parker reminded her.

Emily fixed her gaze on Lyle. "I think it's real. You have no idea how... how disturbed part of me is, for just the thought, but then there's this other part of me..." She tossed her chin. "You know what I'm talkin' about. He knows. It's not so funny when it's out of your control. I bet it just kills you!"

He placed a hand over his heart. "Dead, babe, dead. Killed me dead."

She rolled her eyes.

"Check yourself." He gave her a cute, little wink.

She made a face.

Parker leant over and pressed a hand to his chest, over his heart. He winced violently, drawing a weird look from Emily. Parker didn't notice, her attention elsewhere. "Liar!" she snapped, meeting his eye. A frown came onto her face.

He hadn't been quick enough to rearrange his expression.

"Loser!" she said. What the fuck? She was his _sis-ter_, not some kind of maniac! According to him!

He looked away from her uncomfortably.

She glared at him darkly, put a hand on his leg.

"Please don't do that," he asked, still staring off across the thoroughfare, at the nearby photographic store.

"It's true!" she accused suddenly. "They... they did do something to do!"

He turned to look at her. What a load of rubbish! "Oh they did not!" he said.

"Y- Yes, they did."

He made a face. "No, they did not."

"Y-you're the mole! You're one of them!" She snatched back her hand, as though she'd just remembered it, and shot to her feet. "That's it, Mimi! That's why he's been cosyin' up to you! H-he's one of them!"

"Mel," Emily said. "Mel. Come on. He's not T-Corp. He never was."

Parker shook her head, adamant. "He's got a tattoo, you know! I don't know why I didn't see it before! It's so blindingly obvious to me now!"

He sighed and stood up, catching her eye. "Okay, you. Two things: I'm not with T-Corp. That's one. The truth. Two: I'm not your brother. Okay. Calm down. I'm goin' to where I belong, to where I always belonged. No worries. I'm not trying to take you back in." He put his hands up. "I'm gone. I'm already gone. I'm not your enemy, anymore. Okay?"

Parker shook her head.

He kept his calm. "I'm not your enemy, Miss Parker."

"You're going back to them!"

"To the Tower, yes."

"When were you ever seriously with the Tower?" Emily asked, catching him out on his slipup immediately.

He frowned. "I've done some work for them, yes. In the past," he admitted, glancing at her quickly, then back to Parker. Why was she interrupting him? Couldn't she see Parker needed him to say the right thing right now?

Parker closed her eyes. "It's-it's just another ploy, isn't it? That's what it is. You want me to think you've changed, because of Mimi, because she's your Convergence partner. You're really stuck on selling this thing."

Emily frowned, tilting her head. "Melody, you know he just wants me to believe it because he wants to believe it himself. It's... it's not about me, really, it's about him. He wants to feel normal, in some small way; like a person, instead of... instead of some crazed... freak!"

"Why are you pandering to him?" Parker demanded, suddenly switching her attention to her.

Emily pressed her fingers to her forehead, suppressing a heavy sigh. She was lying through her teeth right now, but she hoped Mel bought it. "Look, I... I realise you're not going to be happy about this, but I'm... I'm fed up of always..." she sighed, finally, "of always being alone. Nobody else was showing any interest..." She shook her head, dropping her hand from her forehead. "I know! I know! What an _idiot_! But I... I was desperate. I was climbing the walls. I _had_ to do _something_! I was going out of my mind. I... I figured, wouldn't matter much if I broke something that's been broken before. Doesn't even remember how to live without being broken. Always looking for that next thrill, that next break. I... _I liked the feeling that I could have that kind of power, Mel!_ That, just once, someone would... would _want me_, that they'd look for me, instead of... always running away!"

"How could anyone run away from you?" Parker asked sadly.

"When I pushed them away, that's how," Emily muttered. "I can't... I can't just keep on hurting people, Mel! For my own benefit! I'm not _him_!" She rounded on Lyle with a glare. "If keeping them away meant keeping them safe, then I couldn't listen to my heart and just ignore my head! I couldn't do it, Mel! I'm sorry! I'm bloody sorry! But I couldn't." She grabbed her shoulder bag from the back of her chair and got out her puffer, took a hit, breathed deeply. Damn it!

Parker walked around the table and rested her head against hers. "I'm sorry."

"Forget it," Emily said quietly. She put her puffer away. "I'm a fool. You're right to be pissed at me."

"I'm not pissed at you, just surprised, worried."

"Well, you won't have to worry any longer," Emily replied, gesturing to Lyle. "He's... leaving, apparently."

"Transferring," Parker filled her in.

"Good. _Good_," Emily said. "I can't stand him anymore."

"You mean you could actually stand him before?" Parker asked.

Emily smiled. "No." She looked sad. "I'm just pathetic that way. _Was_ pathetic that way! Not anymore!"

Parker patted her arm; _That's the way._

Lyle shook his head. "I give up. You ladies are nuts!"

"_Speaking_, freak!" Emily bit back.

He laughed humourously.

Parker got that he'd been joking; Emily didn't want to get it. Time for revenge! But it wasn't just Lyle's fault; Empath or no. Emily was a Mediator. She didn't fall for that shit. If she had, then it had been of her own volition. She couldn't put all the blame onto Lyle, then. "_I'm not nuts_!" she hissed, and Emily laughed, waving a hand at her.

"That's okay," she gasped, eyes watery with laughter. "That's okay. I know I am!"

Parker looked apologetic, smiled at the other woman. She didn't know what to think, frankly. Lyle, the compulsive liar, was constantly lying to her and everyone else! But Mimi, was Mimi lying to her, too? Did she believe that they had Convergence, or was that too scary a thought to simply contemplate? Why should she be landed with the fucked up psychopath, for pity's sake! Why her? What had she ever done? Or... or, was she supposed to fix it, now? No, no. She wouldn't. How could she? That wasn't on her! No fucking way. Well, yeah, maybe she was in denial, but who wouldn't be, who wouldn't want to be, faced with the alternative, as appetising as it was?

She would have to be nuts to think there was nothing wrong with that.

Parker swallowed a sigh. Lyle wasn't really very clever, in honesty. If he'd raised his voice, at least, he might have sounded believable. She _knew_ he wasn't the T-Corp mole - _supposed_ mole - but he hadn't exactly convinced her. The Tower didn't care about the truth, or reasonableness, they only cared if you jumped to their command or if you didn't, and if they decided to piss Lyle off, and he didn't react the way they wanted, that would piss _them_ off. It wouldn't matter what he said to them, then, because they just wouldn't believe a word of it; no matter what he said, they'd think it one more of his games.

Not that she cared.

A small part of her whispered that that kind of calm didn't come natural to him, that it was special for someone, for his Convergence partner, say. The same way that Emily, as freaked out as she'd been back in that music store, hadn't once gone for her asthma puffer. Hadn't needed it, with her Convergence partner standing so near. It was in the way they'd meet each other's eye, for one small second, almost too small to catch, not the same. In the way everything was so clear, but so muddled up, so hard to sort through. And that smile, so unlike his usual smiles, as though a little glimpse of the human being he might have been, if he'd chosen that path. Honestly, it shook her calm a little, to watch it, to have to see these things and not be able to push them away, to turn a blind eye to them. It was the Pretender in her, stabbing her in the back. Didn't want it, couldn't fight it. (I truly sympathise with you, Jar!)

_Jarod._

Her mind latched onto the thought. Did Jarod know? Did his parents know? Ethan, Gemini? Shhhh...! But it'd be okay. They were through now, anyway. He'd be leaving soon. If all went well, they'd never see each other again. M- Emily would be alright; she wouldn't be hurt, if they hurt him. Recent events couldn't have offered more definitive proof of that. So, that was that sorted.

No, Parker didn't truly believe that Emily and Lyle had Convergence; Lyle would never change, how he was now was how he'd stay, until he died. He was just quite good at lying. Quite good because he'd even had her confused, a couple of times. But that was all it had been, she thought: confusion; she'd never actually been sold.

Noticing that Lyle had gone off, she asked Emily if she'd like anything to eat, then walked to the counter to order something. She was hungry, suddenly. Probably, because it was lunchtime.

Emily suppressed a heavy sigh. Mel seemed to be doing okay, all things given, which was good, but remembering everything, like she had, was all very strange, all very... hectic. She was glad, in a way, glad to have had a friend, at least, but in other ways, not so glad. She could see Mel didn't believe Lyle to be her brother, for instance, and Lyle, himself, had had to go and say that, no, it was just another lie. It was something else, something Mel had clearly not picked up on, a sort of... That was the way it seemed to her, anyway. To anyone on the outside, looking in on their interactions, one would assume it didn't matter to Lyle, the things Parker said or did, but Emily thought that it did. He might have come off as all independent and bold and whatnot, but underneath he wasn't like that at all, underneath he was very attached to Parker, and not just in a brother/sister way. It struck her as more of a... shit, it was well creepy, she knew that, but it struck her as more of a son/mother thing, which, clearly, was way off base. But, for whatever reason, that was the impression she got.

She could have been wrong, she acknowledged that entirely, but she didn't think she was. Lyle had known about Parker for a long time, for longer than he let on, and he'd formed some kind of bond with her, in a one-sided way. All the time that she was thinking he was in love with her, she'd really got it mixed up. He wasn't _in_ love with her, but he did care about her, he did love her. As much as he knew how to love anyone, anyway.

Emily wasn't bothered by that. Even if they were to have had Convergence - even if they did have Convergence - she knew she wouldn't, couldn't, have meant much to him anyway, and she didn't know that she'd particularly want to, either. To mean something to a person like that. A monstrous person like he was. But it was... intriguing, to say the least. At least, to her Mediator side, she found it very intriguing. The mystery of it, she supposed. If he honestly wasn't Parker's brother, then what was he? Then why was he so attached to her? How did he justify it, if not because he was in love with her? How then? Because Catherine had been the great could-have-been (would-have-been) saviour of those kids, kids like him, and Parker was her daughter, almost resembled her note for note? No, too easy. This wasn't something to do with Catherine, it was about Parker, about Mel. Clearly, about Mel. Very intriguing.

Spying Lyle over by the newspapers, she got up, collected up her shoulder bag, and went off that way, too, offering Parker a nod as she passed her. The magazine/newspaper rack, if that was what it could be called, was mounted to one of the large, square pillars, support beams for the roof. Lyle wasn't reading one of the newspapers, however, he was looking at a magazine with the words _Top Gear_ on it. She'd never heard of it before, but it didn't matter.

"You didn't ask me to meet you here for yourself, I gather. To see _me_. It was for Mel's benefit."

He looked at her suddenly, and frowned. Pardon?

So, that trick only worked with Mel, she thought. His Empathy was having an off day. Probably, he'd geared his Perception to fill in that little gap, to relay back to him what he needed to know about Parker's moods and the such. It did seem to support the theory that she was someone important to him, and Empaths' Perception was noted, in a lot of documents, to be highly active, unlike that of many Pretenders, where it was almost dormant.

"You're not here because of me, are you? You came because of Miss Parker, because _she_ wanted to see me?"

He frowned some more, obviously thinking, well, as true as that was, it could also be taken by her as a little hurtful. Yes, they'd agreed that they wouldn't get attached to one another, but sometimes that was just what people did, right?

Finally, he sighed. "Yes, it was for Miss Parker's sake. I... supposed I might try my hand, one last time, at convincing her that we were truly siblings, you see, and I... Empathically shared something with her, about you. Without thinking it through, naturally, as I am so fond of doing. Not a very convincing Pretender, I suppose. I guess that wasn't altogether... becoming of me, given the private nature of... things, but I've never been a particularly becoming person anyway. All things said and done, fast-forward to the moral of the story, here, Miss Parker's mind spent some time silently working through things, processing the data input, until, one day, bingo!, she realised, _Hang on, you know what, I think I know that girl_. And here we are now. Feel free to... feel insulted or disgusted or... whatever. Shocked..."

"No, no," she replied, "it's nothing worse than I'd have expected of you, if I'm honest. I've said before, and I can safely say again, and go on saying, I don't trust you. Insulted, perhaps. Perhaps I am. But shocked? No! Not at all.

"I'd just like to know something, if you might."

"Go on."

"Why would you do that? For Miss Parker? What was the thinking behind the decision to, to meet me, I guess? You thought you'd be able to gain her trust that way? She'd suddenly think, _Holy shit, you are my brother!_, when, all along, she's maintained her belief as to the case being otherwise?"

He shook his head. "Yes. That's... That's why. I thought I'd give it a shot. People who believe in Convergence take it very seriously. They don't immediately think, at least, all at once, that someone else who _supposedly_ believed in it, as well, would use it that way, so... manipulatively. Good plan, though. Would have been even better if it had worked. I didn't... I came here for me, not for Parker. Not for you. Because I wanted to sell her on the whole brother/sister/twin thing. I can... be honest with you, on that. I- I suppose you've figured out by now that I'm transferring away from... out of- out of Delaware. My... son, Reagan, he's... Ah, how do you say... a company asset. The Blue Cove branch, if you will, and, therefore, the chairman, whoever that may be, at this point in time, is his legal guardian. I- I'm leaving, going away, it would be... it would be advantageous if... if Parker could step in, whilst I was... away, and... take care of things f-for me, on that front. Look out for him, you know? I figured, well, you know, the fact that we're siblings would be as good an incentive for that sort of thinking as any."

"Ah."

"That-that... yes. That's why- that's why."

"It's a good thing I'm wise to all your little games, then," she replied, "or else I might have been letdown. I might have been hurt."

He nodded. Yes, a good thing.

"I gather this isn't a voluntary transfer?" she went on.

"No." He frowned. Oh, right, she'd been fishing for that one, and he'd just handed it to her on a platter. Stupid. Stupid move. Killed the mystery dead in the water, that one did. There went that, then. Not that, mind you, he cared much if she thought him mysterious. Actually, he'd have preferred the opposite. Women only liked mysterious guys in romance novels, right? Hated predictable, boring men, apparently, but didn't so much go for the mystery, either. It was more about... about other things. Control, for instance, being able to say, "No, this is what I want, and that's my final word; no substitutions accepted." Contradictory, perhaps, but that was how it went. Men expected the same thing of women, right, on a slightly different level, perhaps, but all the time. "Don't stand there dithering away about it, make up your mind! Blather, blather, blather - just choose already!" That sort of thing. So what did he care of mystery. He was just getting confused, making up reasons to shuffle away the confusion, overtired, cliched reasons that had nothing, in actuality, to do with Emily. He'd stop. It was so not becoming, and just a bit rude; disrespectful, perhaps?

"Just like that? 'No'? I suppose you're on the homestretch now, just can't be bothered thinking too hard anymore. I won't fall for that whole, _Oh, there's some big conspiracy here, I know it!_ Lois Lane crap. No conspiracy, just laziness and bullishness."

He smiled. "When you're right, you're right. What can I say?"

"_Nada_."

Nodded.

She sighed. "You know, you don't... you don't really believe that, do you? The Convergence hype?"

"No," he replied pleasantly.

"No," she agreed. She didn't either, truth be told.

She handed him a tissue, from her handbag. "Your... nose..." Bleeding... a little bit there...

He put the magazine back on the rack. "Ta."

It wasn't until they'd returned to the table and she was tucking into a nice mixed grill, salad and chips, that it hit her, what the blood nose meant, what she'd overlooked, what she'd been overlooking for quite some time now. Naomi. He wasn't with T-Corp, he was with Naomi. The group who'd come up with the biomech-disabling serum. Only, it didn't work on upgrades, only on tags. It didn't work in the brain; in other parts of the body - the tags attached themselves to the blood-producing parts inside the bone - but not the brain. That was why the blood nose, that was why he'd been the one to come get her from T-Corp. Her pen pal had been named Naomi, only, Naomi hadn't been one person, it had been an entire organisation.

Naomi was trying different things, looking to branch out, to figure out a way to disable upgrades now, too. But they hadn't got there yet. Wherever it was he was transferring to, he didn't expect to be there long. Whether he'd engineered the whole thing himself, who knew? He didn't have long left, and if Naomi didn't come up with something, and come up with it quick, he'd be dead soon. Which was why the big effort with Parker, with his kid. Kid needed someone on his side, right? All kids did. _What a fool!_ she thought. _What a Goddamn fool!_

It wasn't just a fairytale she was telling herself, she was certain; it wasn't just some way for her - the heroine of her little story - to redeem the hero so they could live happily ever after, it was the truth. He was crazy. Just a lot crazier than she'd imagined, was all. A lot, lot crazier. And why? Why?, she couldn't begin to say.

Because of Noah, the Centre's great Empath/Pretender/Shining Light. Because whoever had tried to rescue the kid had made Catherine think, _Maybe I can do that, too? Maybe I can rescue some kids, too!_ And Cathy was Parker's mom, and... and Parker didn't have a brother anymore, had had him taken away from her, by the Centre, by the lunatics who'd upgraded him when he'd been no older than a year and two months. And that was it all over, why Lyle felt so attached to Parker, because he'd never had any siblings, either; because, deep down inside, he'd wanted a family, he'd wanted people who'd care about him - people he'd be able to care about - too. That was all he wanted. At least, back then, she thought. Things were different now, but some things, they didn't change.

Abuse and neglect were bad, bad things. That never changed. Would never change.

_Damn! _But Naomi! She'd always kinda thought of them as... as quieter than that, sort of a backyard operation. How they'd managed to recruit a loony like Lyle was beyond her comprehension. In college, perhaps, then? Virginia. _Could be. It's as likely as anything else we've come up with in regard to them, in the past,_ she thought. She'd have to be sure and run that by Jarod. Naomi, Virginia. Just a thought, none of the specifics. She couldn't very well rock up and blurt that out, could she? "I'm ex-T-Corp. Shit, Trudy and I - practically family, babe!" No, that would be a very, very bad idea. She'd keep her mouth shut, for now. She knew how to be practical. What was the use in telling Jarod that Lyle was working for Naomi, too? He was dying. It was pointless. He'd never give them anything on Naomi, that was clear. He hadn't given them anything when they'd been studiously working on converting him to their cause, and he wouldn't now. He was mad as heck. Mad, mad.

It was just a miracle he'd stayed loyal to Naomi all these years, to be honest. They were lucky, they obviously hadn't pissed him off. They obviously had no qualms letting him murder innocent young women, either, because they'd have to have known about it, even if they were pretending not to, even if they had their suspicions but would rather not investigate them any further because they knew very well what they'd find and just didn't want to have to deal with it when they did. So Naomi had their faults. It seemed like they were about even, in that regard: all of the little (and not so little) companies under the Triumvirate's protective umbrella. They all had their faults.

She looked up, now, to the people sitting at the table with her. Parker, she saw, was busy making short work of her own meal and not just making strange eyes at it, thank goodness for that. Her gaze moved on, to Lyle. Was it because of what they'd put him through, because of his run-in with unnamed baddies, or because of his upgrades that his movements were just that bit... awkward, jittery, as though he'd done quite a bit of damage to his nervous system, somehow? A combination of the three? she wondered. Just how long did he have left, until he dropped dead? These were all interesting things to know. After all, her mom would find out sooner or later that they'd put all their time and effort into a wasted effort, had risked their lives for nothing. When she did, Emily would have to be ready to play ball.

She eyed the last few chips on her plate, for a moment, and stood up. Time to get him another glass of water, she decided; he looked ready to fall asleep any moment. "I'm going for something to drink," she told Parker. "Anything I can get you, whilst I'm there?"

"No."

"Okay." She walked off, over to the counter. She didn't notice Lyle had got up and followed her until she spied him standing next to her; yes, thank you, creepy. He was looking at her. Right, she remembered, she hadn't asked him if he'd wanted anything, had she? Obviously, he did.

_Why not?_ she thought. Maybe he'd pay for it, whilst he was about it. "My apologies," she said, "you'd like something, too?"

His eyes went to the desserts. Crap! She felt like smacking his arm. She'd just been thinking the same thing, but she'd been able to hold herself back by telling herself she'd just be wasting a lot of unnecessary money and she'd look a right dummy - guts, anyone - eating dessert on her own.

She sighed, and shuffled over to look at the desserts a bit better. What would be nice? In the end, she decided on the fruit salad. Lyle was having the plum yeast cake thing which he'd told her she could have half of, and she'd made a face at, but shut up, _Fine, weirdo!_, so that would work out alright. She didn't want to overdo it with the sugar, but natural fruit sugar was okay, as long as they hadn't added too much extra sugar to the fruit salad. Just because she was feeling in the mood to be a pain, she ordered Parker a fruit salad, too. It couldn't hurt her to eat a little more, could it?

When they got back to the table, and Parker saw what they were holding, her eyes said otherwise. What, one of them desserts was for her, was it? Were they trying to kill her, here? She couldn't possibly eat _that_ much! She'd already overdone it, stupidly, to impress Emily; _Beg pardon, but I _do_ eat. See._

She moaned, and shook her head when Emily tried passing the fruit salad off on her. "You eat it, little brother," she said, to Lyle - yes, they could be brother and sister when it suited her. "I'm really full. I couldn't fit it in if I tried!"

He frowned.

She grabbed for the coffee Emily had got her anyway, brought over on the tray with the desserts, as though it might help state her case.

"You can't eat dessert, but you can drink that?" he said.

"I'm tired! I need it."

"Tired? You've already had two coffees today."

"One and a half," she corrected. "That instant crap doesn't count as a real coffee. It was vile!"

He sighed, and looked at her dessert. "You won't have _any_?"

She picked a cherry off the top, then waved a hand at him. "I'm done. It's all yours."

"Thank you."

She put the cherry down, on her saucer, and picked up her mug to sip her coffee, shrugging lightly. _No problems._

Emily rolled her eyes, smiling. _Typical. Just typical._ "Caffeine isn't a substitute for proper, restful sleep," she put in, in case anyone cared.

"How could I sleep?" Parker cried suddenly, face aghast, her eyes travelling to Lyle. It was on the tip of her tongue to say, _When he was there, lurking!_ "I was on wheels!" she said, instead. "The engine was still running, in my head! It makes it very hard to sleep."

Emily tossed her chin in Lyle's direction. "You, why don't you drive? Don't make your sister do all the driving, it's unfair! She's used to being chauffeured around everywhere, not to driving herself around!"

Parker laughed. "I love driving! I just find the speed restrictions hard to handle, at times." She shot Emily a funny look. "_Me_, trust _that one_ behind the wheel? Pull another one, eh!" She laughed again. "If we want to end up dead - Sure thing! If _he_ wants _me_ to end up nauseous, _on him_ - I can work it. But, unfortunately, I don't think he wants to get around all day covered in my sick any more than I want to end up dead and have some weirdo, complete stranger, touching my... meat suit." She shivered exaggeratedly.

Emily glanced at her fruit salad, then back to Parker. "Thanks for that image, hon. I feel so much like - wow, like eating now!"

"Eat it!" Parker told her. "Look at you, you're-"

Emily scoffed. "I like my butt, thank you," she replied. "And I happen to think it's a nice, healthy weight."

Parker choked, and grabbed for her coffee. "Yeah, sure, if that's what you think."

Emily rolled her eyes. "Hello, short stuff!" An offended look crossed Parker's face before Emily added, "_Moi_, not _tu_!" She wasn't some tall person, thanks. She was just small-boned.

"No! Rubbish, you're not that short!"

Emily slipped off her high heels and stood up, her eyes defying Parker to repeat her earlier comment. She was _fairly_ short, thank you.

Parker had nothing to say.

Lyle intervened, instead. "Hey, Tink! Don't beat yourself up over it, I think you're cute."

Emily sat down again quickly, with wide eyes. _Um, no thank you._

"Is that meant to hint at anything?" Parker asked, with narrowed eyes. "S A C. It's in the sack. Let's have some fun in-"

"Don't wind him up!" Emily warned her.

"Short and cute. You are. He said so _himself_. I'm just-"

Emily held her hands up. "I'm not a part of this nicknaming thing, okay! Don't... don't involve me in it."

Lyle laughed. "Don't even think of repeating that one to Broots. He'll be beside himself with terror."

Parker cracked up. "Damn! I've gotta make up a really juicy love scene/dream sequence to tell Sydney involving Raines and Fulton, just when Broots walks in. That'll get him scared!" She grinned.

Emily shook her head. "What's your fixation with always terrifying that poor guy, anyway?" she asked.

Parker stared at her, then looked wildly at Lyle. "Outdone by Broots! Who'd have thought! I think your girl's crushing on-"

Emily sighed. "I'm not his girl, Mel. I'm not even _a girl_. And, sorry to kill your little fantasy, or whatever, but I'm not crushing on Broots. Look, this guy must have a first name!" She glanced at Lyle, as though hoping he'd be able to tell her. "I'm sick of... of... the surname name thing."

"I think it starts with a _d_," Parker replied. In honesty, she didn't know Broots's first name, she'd just chosen the letter _d_ as a windup, a hint to Diana, Cox's imaginary girlfriend. Ha-ha, suck it, Cox! We can even make fun of you when you're _not_ around - and it's _still funny_!

"Ezra," Lyle told her. His first name was Ezra.

Parker made a face. Oh, rubbish! He'd just made that up. It was not! Was it?

"Ezra. Thank you. I am not crushing on Ezra, alright. Happy? No crushes. I'm not a teenager. If I'm interested in someone in that way, I'll come out and tell them," she finished with a growl.

"Touchy," Parker choked, and received a grape pelted in her direction, for her efforts. "What the eff, Mimi? You're harbouring some secret, unrequited flame for someone and you make _me_ the go-to girl for letting off steam over it!"

"No!" Emily snapped. "Quit acting like such a jerk! Just because _he_ isn't!" She frowned. "And I'm sorry. I'm a twit. Can we just... talk about something else?"

Parker sighed. "So much for the food fight," she replied. "And I was _so_ looking forward to getting little brother turfed out of _another_ shopping mall!"

"Another?" Emily asked dryly.

"I'm sure there are shopping malls he's been banned from. He's banned from Whisker's Blake."

"Dreadful, my dear, just dreadful," Emily agreed. A seafood restaurant? Big loss there, then. Not a seafood nut, unfortunately.

"He's banned from the hospital."

"Alright," Lyle cut in. "I think she gets the idea. Just... finish your coffee. I'm sure she's got other places to be, mysteries to solve..."

Emily's eyes widened. The Mysterious Healer! Gah! How could she have forgotten? "Mel!"

"What?" Parker mumbled, polishing off the cherry from her saucer, at last.

"Jarod said Sydney had been to a T-Corp conference about... things," she waved a hand, "anyway, and they brought up the Mysterious Healer. You know anything about that?"

She nodded. "Sydney was going on about how they're all so in love with him, or something, and how creepy that is, and, 'What's that all about, do you reckon?', and, errr... you know, that was about the end of it. That's Syd for you. Never gives aaaanything away. Well, on the rare occasion, and look how that turned out."

"What?" Emily asked.

"Nicky!"

Emily nodded. Oh, yeah. Nicholas. His son. "How's he doing, these days? He doing okay?"

"Okay, from what I can tell," Parker replied. She pointed. "That's right. Yeah! That's right. He's engaged. Fairly recently. Ah, hav- haven't met the," she waved her hands about, "the girl yet, but we'll see. We'll see."

"Corbin," Lyle put in.

Parker's gaze snapped to him. "What?" A _dude_!

"Her name's Corbin," Lyle said.

Parker closed her eyes, then opened them again. "There's a chick called Corbin and... and Nicky's engaged to her?"

"Corbin Athena. Yes. They're engaged, as you... say."

"Aaand?"

He shook his head. "Nothing."

"Nothing?"

"No."

"What do you mean _no_?"

"I mean _no, I've nothing else to add on the subject._"

"How do you know her name's Corbin? Or that she's a... she?"

"I've met her. They've been dating for... what, it has to be years now. I should say, they've been a couple for that long. But she's..."

"She's what? Pregnant?"

He frowned. "It isn't that. She was... his student, you know. People can be... iffy about things like that. But she's old enough now that people shouldn't constantly be giving her a hard time and they've obviously decided they're happy in their relationship and would like to... would like to, you know, keep- keep it that way, but..." He shook his head. "You get the idea."

"I think I'll let our boy Nicky break the news to Syd," Parker replied, widening her eyes. No sneak peeks there, ta.

"Well, you should. It really... wasn't my place..."

"Zippp it! I heard nothing. _Nada_, my friend. _Na-da_!"

He sighed.

To Emily, Parker mouthed, _Pregnant_.

Emily frowned at her; _don't be demonstrative._

"Ah well." Parker finished the last of her coffee.

Emily collected her shoulder bag and got to her feet. That was that, then. Time to be off. She walked around the table and hugged Parker, for a moment. "I guess... I'll see you when I see you. Drive safely, stay well, you know, all the usual rigmarole."

"You too," Parker replied.

"Oh, I'll do my best."

Parker nodded.

Emily glanced around at Lyle. "Have fun, wherever it is you're going. Send Mel lots of postcards, she loves those."

"I do not!" Parker protested.

"And don't do anything I wouldn't, I guess," Emily finished. She stuck out her hand.

He didn't take it, but sighed, and frowned. "I'll... try to remember all that. _Totsiens_, I guess."

"She doesn't speak Frankie!" Parker reminded him, in a sing-song voice.

"_Goodbye._ That's what it means." He frowned. "And it's not- it's not called Frankie!"

She burst into laughter. "Chimpy!"

"Mean girl."

"Hey, I'm meaning that ape doctor friend of yours - I'm not insulting the language! I know what it's called; I even know _Cox_'s name! Does it look like I get around calling him it! 'Here, JR. Here, boy. Gooood boy. Aren't you such a good boy? Aren't you? Yes! Yes you are!' Pull _another_ one! I could _puke_!" She shook her head, turning to Emily. "Chimpy is Cox's nickname, and it about sums him up, nice and neatly. Although, monkeys might find the comparison insulting. I wouldn't know, I don't frequent zoos on a regular basis. Maybe you could, ah, get Jarod to point us in that direction and I'll be able to ask."

Emily didn't say anything.

Parker patted her arm. "Take care o' yaself, girl."

Emily rolled her eyes. Yeah, they'd been through this. She gave Parker a last, brief hug, then she turned and walked away.

Parker chewed on her lip, impatiently watching the floor until she was sure Emily must be gone and it would be safe to look up. She did so. Yep. Gone. She looked at Lyle. "I hate you. Can you just die? Like, right now?"

"I'm afraid not." He gestured in front of him. "Shall we go?"

She rolled her eyes, scowling, and stalked off, for the nearest escalator. Yeah, _she_ was going! What he did, that was his business, and she couldn't give a stuff about it.

As he headed after Parker, for the escalator, he was stopped by a hand on his arm and turned to see who it was. Emily had come back. Shuffling closer suddenly, she put her arms around him and hugged him tightly for a long moment. "_Totsiens_," she whispered, and flitted off again.

After a moment, he walked off. Escalator, automatic doors, outside, into the carpark. Back to the car, where Parker was waiting, an impatient expression adorning her face; _what took ya, huh? Think ya could pick your feet up a bit? Don't tell me, you got _lost_?_ A tiny flicker of amusement lit her face. Pretty funny, though. Ex-Sweeper trainer, L5 Primary, gets lost in shopping mall!


	10. Chapter 10

**Additional Disclaimer** I don't own the song _No Good in Goodbye_ (performed by Jewel), its music or lyrics.

* * *

><p>They'd pulled over at one of those roadside rest stops; the wind brushed her hair about, annoying her. She kept trying to push it back into place. "If you're not my brother, then why the big pretence? If you freaks hadn't engineered it, I'd never have known about... about my twin."<p>

"Theodore," Lyle said.

She frowned, hand on her hair. "_Theodore?_ Are you serious? That... that was my twin's name?"

He grimaced; _yes_. Almost said, "Tory, if you like." Held himself back. Did she know that was Ange's friend's name? Possibly. Would not have said Noah - as far as she knew, Noah was the African branch's great claim to fame, their super Pretender. Would not have said Teddy - Teddy was _his_ alter, not Noah's, not even Bobby's.

She seemed to give the name some thought. Remembered, funnily, something Ben had told her, funny story: Theodore was his real middle name, but once they'd mistakenly put it down as Thomas, on an important document, and he'd never bothered to correct them. How funny was that? Why hadn't he bothered? Had he done something criminal that would make his mistaken identity an advantageous one? Then her thoughts changed. Wait, Ben? Ben, who might have been her dad. Wh-what if he was? What if he was - and _Raines wasn't_! Whoop!

Little Mel, inside her mind, made a face. Was she going to get up on the table and jump up and down, too? Just to complete the whole thing. Scream obscenities Raines would never hear, though they were meant for him. Fake _and a loser_!

She fought back a glare. Yeah, right, she wasn't Alex. _Piss off, you. Since when have you had anything to say?_

Little Mel shrugged, disappeared back into the murky depths of her mind.

_Yeah, that's right! You're grounded, girl! To your room with you!_

Withdrawing from her thoughts, she returned her attention to Lyle, looking out across the paddocks, to the hills in the distance, the trees far away. The wind whipped hair into her face, but she brushed it away, and was suddenly struck with a memory from a long, long time ago, from wee Mel's time...

"_You're my Momma's friend?" The little girl sounded sceptical because she was. She brushed her hair impatiently from her face and tucked it behind an ear. In the background, she could hear people's excited chatter, some of them, less excited than others, some of them upset, too. It was the fair. Hey, shit happened. In the background, she heard the sounds of people playing games, riding on those rides. People having fun. People spending time with other people having fun, people they thought were fun, family (so _un_-fun!); friends._

"_Yes."_

_Melody narrowed her eyes. Yeah right, mister. "From Ireland?"_

"_Yes, that's right. From Ireland." He said it like an Irish person would say it, like her Momma would say it._

"_How come you don't talk like my Momma, then?" she asked._

"_I just don't, I guess," he replied._

"_Are you older than Momma, or are you younger?" A very important question, she thought._

"_Older."_

_She frowned. "That doesn't make sense," she finally concluded. No, it didn't. It made no sense. He was older, but he sounded like them; her Momma was younger, and she sounded... different._

"_Picture it this way, blossom: Coming to America meant starting over, meant making a new life for myself, do you understand? But perhaps your Momma wasn't ready to let go of her old life?"_

_The little girl thought about this. Well, it did seem to make some sense..._

_The man - Ben, he'd called himself when he'd met her outside her house - sighed. "Would you like to try one of the rides?"_

_Her eyes widened. "I get awful motion sickness," she lied._

_He held out his hand for her. "We'll go together."_

_She swallowed a moan and walked ahead of him boldly, in the direction of the ride she thought was the coolest of all - no holding hands for her, thank you; she wasn't a _baby_. She didn't know why she'd gone anywhere with this man, she just knew he wasn't going to hurt her, and though she felt awfully like taking his hand, she resisted._

She snapped back to the present day, with a mental shiver. The Ben of her memory looked just like Lyle! D-did that mean Lyle was Ben's son? Her half-brother, even? (Assuming Ben _was_ her father.) Then how had he ended up with the Bowmans, in Nebraska? A lot of her childhood memories weren't clear to her. It irked her. On this occasion, it irritated her more than usual. She knew there were other memories of Ben, tucked away there inside her, she just couldn't bring them to the surface! Why the Hell would Ben have given his kid away? Had he had a wife, once? Had she died? Or had he left her? Had he thought having a wife and kid would mess up his chances with her mother? What kind of a person was he, exactly? What had happened to Lyle's mom, in that case? Why had she given him up? Had it all been too much for her to handle, alone? Had she... had some problem? Some mental problem? she thought suddenly.

Abruptly remembering that she was sitting in very close proximity to a Class Five Empath, she tucked all of these thoughts away for a later time, for later re-examination. Nothing was set in stone yet, but, just in case, she didn't want Lyle knowing her business. Even if he was her half-brother, it would make very little difference. She already had one of those. One she liked much, much better. One who wasn't an insane cannibal with delusions of his own superiority. Besides, she wanted to hear more about this real brother business.

"What happened to him?"

He shook his head. Don't know.

Then it occurred to her: Why was she listening to him? Why was she even _listening_ to him? What did it care, if she remembered some shit from the past? Who said it was even real? He was a Class Five Empath. What was wrong with her?

"You don't know, or you don't want me to know?"

He smiled, looked away from her to play with something on his wrist.

Not that crappy African thing! she thought. Frankie had probably given it to him, some creepy lover boy thing.

He passed her the bracelet. She didn't hold out her hand. "This was Theodore's."

She made a face. Said flatly, "I don't believe that."

He didn't take the thing away.

Suppressing a scowl, she snatched the thing off him and dropped it onto the table, in front of her. She glared at it. "Cox is too young to be my brother, you numbskull."

He laughed. "What?"

"It was him that gave you that creepy thing, wasn't it?"

"No."

"My brother give you this then?" she asked, not bothering to hide her disbelief.

"No. We never met."

She narrowed her eyes. Sure, sure.

"I found it."

"Oh, you _found_ it! And all you had to do was _touch_ it and Zam!, you knew everything about its owner!" She fought down the urge to laugh in his face.

"No. Not everything. I knew his name. I knew he was about my age."

She rolled her eyes, returned her attention to Lyle's face. "And how old was that?"

"Four."

She grinned. Four! Sure! "You expect me to believe your Empathy was _that_ good at that age?"

"That is typically the age when expression of the anomaly begins to exhibit itself in earnest."

She shook her head. "And this was, where? In Nebraska? You found my brother's... thing, in that crap-heap town of yours?"

"No. It was before we moved to the country. We were living in Virginia at the time."

"You were living in Virginia!" she mocked. Oh, and that made all the difference, right!

"In the city."

Mockingly, "Was Theodore living with a family? Did you _discover_ his last name?"

"No. I don't know who he was living with, if it was in the city, or if they'd merely been passing through, the people he'd been with. I didn't really care."

She shoved the thing back in his direction with one finger. "I don't care, either. I don't want it. Keep it, creep! It's not my brother's anymore, if there _is_ any brother and you've ever _met_ him, or _haven't met him_."

"My Empathy isn't working. Perhaps you'd have more luck having someone else take a look at it. A Class Six, or Seven?"

"I don't think so," she merely replied. "I know what you're up to. After all these years, all they'd be able to get from it is your spastic shit. I'm not _that_ stupid!"

"How do you know he didn't leave you a message?" Lyle asked.

She scoffed. "It's not even _alive_!" How could he leave a message with some_thing_ that wasn't even, had never even _been_, some_one_!

"It was once."

She full out laughed. "Fuck you! _Fuck_ you! And if you're going to say that's why you're obsessed with me, because some creepy kid _made_ you, then you can jolly go and shove that where it fits! Ooo, witchy! Fuck _you_, _asshole_!"

He shrugged a shoulder. "I've no idea how ISPs work."

"Who even says he's an ISP!" she spat.

"He's your twin. It follows-"

"Shut up! Just shut the fuck up! Don't even open your mouth about shit you know nothing about, fuckwit!"

"You're nice," he muttered.

"Yes, I _am_!" she scathed darkly. "He's dead, you imbecile! DEAD! I don't want to hear your stupid voice, so just _shut up_!" She stood up suddenly, and stormed back to the car, hitting the central locking. The lights flashed. She grabbed the door and yanked it open angrily, slamming it after her. _Fuck you! Just fuck you! Fucking liar!_

.

"This is the IT room," Persephone explained, to the kids. "IT stands for Intuitive Touch. It's basically our version of a holo deck. Currently, it works with standard biotech cards."

Fin grinned, glancing at Kim. Reagan was silent.

Persephone took out a biotech card and took it to the console, inserting it into the drive. She pressed a few keys on the keyboard, stood back and raised her eyes to the room on the other side of the glass. Good, yes, the simulation had come up.

"Where is that?" Fin asked.

"Canada. This is our Canadian auxiliary."

"IRIS," Reagan said. Lyle had worked there, making EPs, educational programs on biotech cards.

Persephone pressed a few more buttons. "I think..."

The room, that had previously been virtually empty, filled with people; other kids, all wearing similar clothes.

"And now on live-streaming cards," Persephone finished.

Fin's eyes lit up. "You mean... those kids are really... real someplace. They're not just some recording, but in real time. In... in Canada?"

It was a bright, sunny day, in Canada. Outside, the trees swayed in a gentle breeze. The sky was really blue. Fin's hands itched to reach for that door, to open it and rush into the room.

Persephone stayed away from the door as she explained the rules to them. They'd have to be on their best behaviour; they didn't want to make a bad impression in front of the Canadians.

They agreed. Infinity and Kim, instantly. Reagan merely offered a nod when Persephone's gaze came to rest on his. Persey didn't have to tell them that if they made a good impression, it could mean a few extra dollars a year for them, it could mean they'd stave of liquidation for another year. That was what they really wanted.

Then, finally, they were allowed into the room. A Sweeper went with them, taking a seat at the back of the room, close to the observation window. The three younger ones took their places, took the seats that had been previously set out for them, drawing glances from the other children seated by them. Weren't they dressed funny? What were they? Pretenders? Empaths? A mixture of the two? Something else?

The carer welcomed them and made a little speech in recognition of the occasion. When she turned her back to them, to begin the lesson, one of the older children of the Canadian group stood up. "Dessa, if I might..."

Dessa turned, nodded to the boy.

"Shall we, perhaps, introduce ourselves to our new friends?"

"That's a wonderful idea, Roman!" she declared. Afterwards, she walked around, touching each child on the shoulder, a kindly expression gracing her features as each child recited their name for the group to note.

When it was Fin's turn, and Dessa's hand came to rest on her shoulder, Fin was surprised to find that it actually _did_ rest on her shoulder! Lightly, but even so! "Hello. My name is Infinity."

"Hello, Infinity," the Canadians chorused.

She grinned.

Then it was Kim's turn. "My name's Kim. Hi."

Once more, there was an answering chorus of "Hello, Kim"; a few _Hi, Kim_s thrown into the mix.

"Reagan," Reagan muttered simply.

"Excuse me?" Dessa asked.

Reagan frowned at the floor. "Reagan," he said, a little more loudly. He looked up and saw all eyes on him. _Reagan Parker?_ their eyes wondered. _A real-life Parker! Oh, wow! He's not really that... that great, huh? Strange._

"Hello, Reagan," Dessa replied softly, the kids chorusing after her (Fin joining in, for no particular reason).

Reagan wished they hadn't said anything; he'd never felt more stupid, more... pointless, in his entire life. They'd all been expecting someone... more, well, more everything, and he... he was just him.

.

Lyle brushed a hand over his eye, watching the road ahead of them. _It's okay, baby_, he thought. _You're not pointless. You've never been pointless._ The road never stopped; it kept going forever. Where had this road come from? Where was it going? Why was it here?

He reached over to switch the radio on, and caught Parker's _What the fuck?_ look. "Do you mind?" he asked, remembering that he'd not be able to hear it, anyway. Perhaps, snatches of it, sometimes distorted, sometimes not, through his Colony, but he didn't want to push it; he'd tried to use it as little as possible, in recent years, knowing that it was highly unstable. It wasn't worth the risk, he supposed. But perhaps Parker would like something to listen to?

She threw him a glare and nothing else.

He left it off.

_I love you_, he thought. _I hope you're happy, someday._

.

Emily put her arms around Zoe and hugged her; nearby, Linda watched impatiently. She didn't know who this other woman was, but her older sister seemed to know her. And that was okay, but her sister had recently been very, very ill. Well, yes, it had been a couple of years ago, now, but Linda just didn't trust what the doctors had said, that it was gone for good. Zoe had thought her friends gone for good, too, and now look; look what - who - had turned up on her doorstep. She wasn't so sure this woman being here was a good thing, a good omen.

Her daughter, Queenie, ran into the room, snatching her PS3 controller from the coffee table. Linda stopped the tween at the door, stepping in her way with a stern look. Just where she was going with that thing?

"I thought you weren't feeling well today, Queenie?"

The girl made a face. "I wasn't!"

Linda took the controller from her hand. "Bed rest," she said simply, walking back to the coffee table to put the controller back down.

"But _Mom_!" the girl complained. Her eyes landed on her aunt and the woman sitting with her at the couch.

"No buts," her mom said.

Queenie inched back into the room, her eyes on the strange woman. The woman was dressed in faded jeans and a tee shirt, her hair drawn back into a ponytail, joggers. Her fingernails were weird, though. Red, studded with fake diamonds. (They had to be fake, right?) "Who are you?" the girl asked.

Emily smiled at her.

"Are you a nurse?" Queenie wanted to know.

"I'm Emily," Emily told her.

Queenie shook her head. "That's not what I asked," she replied coldly.

"Emily is my friend, Buzz," Zoe told her. "She's not a nurse."

Queenie's eyes darted to her aunt. "Are you okay?" she asked, in concern.

"Yes, baby, I'm okay."

Queenie stared at her for a long time, discerning the truth in her face, then shrugged. "You have friends?" she asked suddenly.

Zoe nodded.

"Cool," the girl replied. "I've gotta go lie down. Mom _said_ so!" She offered Linda a glaring look, then trudged off.

"It was nice meeting you, Buzz," Emily said after her.

The girl gave nothing back. Sheesh! Her name was _Queenie_! Queen Bee. Only Aunt Zoe got to call her Buzz, anyway. Not even her _mom_! And certainly not strangers!

Emily smiled faintly.

"Queenie," Linda told her. "My daughter's name is Queenie."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be silly," Zoe said. "She doesn't mind, I'm sure."

"I _mind_," Queenie felt like snapping, from the hall, but she didn't say anything. Just walked upstairs, to her room.

Later, in the kitchen, when Katie had asked Zoe to come help her make drinks, Zoe turned to her younger sister with a frown. "Why are you being so hostile to her?"

Linda shrugged. "I'm not being hostile," she disagreed.

Zoe shook her head. Yeah, sure, whatever she said. She got out some cups silently and waited for the kettle to boil. Yeah, sure.

A half hour later, Linda heard the key in the lock. Her husband was home with the kids, back from school. She went out to explain that they had a guest, her sister, Zoe's, friend.

KT, the youngest at six years old, poked her head around the lounge room door, then stepped into the room. "Have you seen Queenie?" she asked, spying her thirteen-year-old sister's game controller on the coffee table.

"I think she's gone up to bed, sweetheart," Emily told her. "She wasn't feeling well."

"She wasn't feeling well this morning, either," the girl returned, perplexed. "Isn't she better now? Did Mommy take her to the doctor's?"

"I don't know, sweetie."

Linda stalked into the room. "There's nothing wrong with her, KT. She was just faking so she wouldn't have to go to school. She's going tomorrow, if I damn well have to drag her all the way there myself!"

The girl shrugged, allowing her dad to take her school bag off her back, and went to find a CD from the CD rack. She chose Mindy Smith's album, _One More Moment_, and slipped it into the player, skipping to track 2. She was going to ask her teacher if they could learn the song for the Prep circus this year. She'd been in Prep last year, but she'd failed and had to re-peat. She hadn't liked last year's songs. She meant to change that, this year. She was going to make her voice heard. That was why she'd been named KT, after all. After her Aunt Katie, Zoe's twin sister, who her mom said was in Heaven with Jesus now.

KT didn't believe in Heaven, though. She believed in The Great Ocean. All things came from The Great Ocean, and, when their bodies died, they went back to The Great Ocean. At all times, all things were in communication with The Great Ocean, were really a part of The Great Ocean still, only, they didn't know. Katie had died and now she couldn't be heard, only sometimes, she could be felt, like when you were just about to fall asleep, or just about to wake up, and that warmth you felt, like a hug, that was Aunt Katie, that was Aunt Katie, saying it would all be okay. At least, for KT, it was her Aunt Katie. It was different for everyone. Aunt Katie was like her guardian angel; she loved her Aunt Katie.

She wasn't going to wait until she couldn't be heard to use her voice, though, she'd decided. She was going to speak now; she was going to make her voice heard now.

Now, she wondered if her Aunt Katie really did have a friend called Jesus, in The Great Ocean. Even if she didn't believe in Heaven, or the Lord, she hoped her Aunt Katie had a friend, had lots of friends. She sure hoped so.

The woman sitting on the couch looked sad suddenly. KT wondered why that was, if she had a family somewhere she was missing, or if she hadn't yet met them? She looked like a nice woman, KT thought, and hoped the woman met someone nice soon.

Her room was painted blue, just like The Great Ocean, and KT loved her room. She supposed Q might have gone to her room to lie down. Sometimes, when she was feeling unwell, Q would come and sleep in her bed with her. KT never minded, though. She was happy, happy her sister could reach out and communicate with the people she loved when she felt sick or unhappy. Loads of people closed off or yelled. Q didn't. At least, not with her. She loved her sister, Queenie, too. She hoped she got better soon. If you weren't feeling well, The Great Ocean could help you, if you remembered it, if you believed in it and let yourself feel a part of it. It could help you. If you lay down and let its waves wash over you, you could get better.

She'd go up later and see if Queenie was feeling better, she decided, when she'd de-stressed and let the day's negative energies wash off her. She'd go and see how her Queenie was. And if she was feeling better, she'd try to talk to her, try to tell her that it was important, for now, that she went to school regularly. She didn't have to believe everything they told her, she just had to go and treat everyone else the way she'd like to be treated herself, with consideration and kindness, and it would be okay. Yes, they would expect other things from her, too, they would expect her to remember the things they told her, to understand them, conceptualise them, but she didn't have to believe in anything she didn't like the sounds of.

When KT looked again, the woman on the couch didn't look sad anymore. KT stood up and walked over to her. "Hello," she said, sitting down beside the woman.

"Hello," the woman returned.

"Do you want a hug?"

The woman frowned.

"I'd really like a hug," KT offered.

The woman smiled and leaned over to hug her.

When Linda came back in and saw this, she didn't look happy. KT frowned, too. Whenever her Aunt Zoe was around, though it was none of her fault, her mom looked unhappy and would scowl at people, even her own family, the people she cared about most and loved the most in all the world. KT didn't quite understand why she would do this, she just knew she would.

She stood up and went to hug her mom, too. "I had a good day at school today, Mom," she said. "How was your day?"

Linda sighed heavily, running a hand over her hair, and patted her little girl's hair. "Good," she replied. "My day was good."

That wasn't how it sounded, KT thought, but she smiled up at her mom anyway.

Afterwards, her dad came in and explained to her mom that flavoured milk drinks weren't savoury; they were full of bacteria. If you wanted flavoured milk, it was probably best to buy plain milk and add natural flavours to it yourself, and only to drink it when you made it, not to keep it for extended periods of time. Instead of buying banana-flavoured milk, to buy milk and bananas and make it yourself at home, with a blender.

Linda waved a hand at her husband and tuned him out, walking past him into the kitchen. If Damen was heating himself up macaroni and cheese in the microwave again when he refused to eat his packed lunch, she'd blanket stop buying the stuff!

"I believe you Daddy," KT told her dad.

"It was on TV yesterday," he said, and sighed, glancing at her.

She smiled.

He smiled back at her and left the room.

The woman sitting on the couch was frowning.

KT picked up the TV remote and switched on the TV, flicking to the 24/7 news channel. Her dad came back in, after a minute, and walked over. "Darren," he offered the woman on the couch, holding out his hand.

"Emily," she said, shaking his hand.

So that was her name, KT thought. Emily. Rhymed with _hilly_, ups and downs and high mountain ranges, beautiful and so damn hard to catch your breath, so, so cold. She looked warm, she looked solid, dependable, that Emily. Was she, really? Was she? What was she like, underneath that pretty-faced exterior, underneath that popular, bright name? Was she cold inside, or was she warm? Did she even know herself?

.

Emily sat at the train station, waiting for her train to come in, feeling a little bit hungry, a little bit lonely. She wanted kids, she wanted a decent man. She took out her cell phone and checked to see if she had any messages, any missed calls. Nothing. She glanced at the kiosk, but it was closed, this time of the evening. Only early evening, only five-thirty, but it was already closed. She suppressed a sigh, suppressed a shiver, pulled her sports bag onto her lap and dug around in it for a jumper, a cardi. Got out a chunky yellow one, pulled it on, thought about that vending machine, a hot coffee. Oh, for a pair of warm arms, a friendly embrace.

She stood up, lugging her sports bag with, shoulder bag hanging from her shoulder. She stood by the vending machine, waiting for her coffee to be done, waiting until she could hold it in her hands.

She'd been glad to see Zoe, glad to see her so well. Her day hadn't been that bad. Not that bad.

The train came later, passengers got on and off, and the train left. Emily took a seat, closed her eyes, drifted off to sleep. The train passed station after station, day turned into night.

.

Parker glanced across at Lyle. Looked like he'd fallen asleep, she thought. Looked back to the road. How could he look so much like her, like anyone else, and yet be so different? How could all the things that mattered to her, not matter to him? Family, the Earth, equality for all. Could he really be her brother? Would it matter, if he was?

No. It wouldn't matter. He was still what he was. She'd still feel the same way she'd always felt about him. People like him didn't belong with the rest of them, the bad ones didn't belong with the good ones, the rotten ones with the decent ones. Even if he was her brother, it wouldn't matter any, it would do best for her to just pretend she didn't have another brother.

She couldn't do what Jarod could do, not even for a "brother". Not when she saw the clear and present danger and, no, there was no turning away from it, pretending it didn't exist. She couldn't keep believing _One day_.

She honestly hoped they weren't related, hoped he wasn't her brother, or half-brother. She hoped she wouldn't have to think about him once he was gone.

.

"How's it going to work, then?" Parker asked, from across the scuffed tabletop in some scrubbed shiny, scruffy-'round-the-edges roadside diner. How you gonna get me the kid?

He stared out at the dark that wasn't quite dark, distorted by lights shining brightly, meaning... meaning what? "_Baby, don't say the stars have fallen from your eyes..._"

She clicked her fingers, waved a hand; Hey, you! You! Your attention, kindly.

He looked at her, stared like maybe he hadn't seen her for a long time, like he was trying to remember each little thing, trying to agree, _Yes, that's right, isn't it?_, though there she was, right there; trying to get everything right, just that second before the answers came.

"Reagan," she said.

His eyes looked too shiny.

Oh God, don't. She felt sick. Stupid diner. Hated it now. Remembered her mom, Cat, tears in her eyes because she was alive, because she had been before, too; tears because... because... this wasn't then, this wasn't the plan. (Had there even been a plan?) What the fuck was this? What the fuck - to make me _feel_ this way? "Yes," she said, to force down that horrible feeling, the reminder of her dead mother, her dead past, a past that still lived in her, _gave_ - had given, seen - her life. "I'll do it. For the child. For him."

I'd do anything, just to feel real again. Just to feel _me_ again. Oh God, I feel so... so unreal, so mechanical. I don't want to simply exist, I want to live! I'm a _human being_, I'm not some machine!

"Don't tell me you need time. When you're ready, give me the date and time. I'll be ready. Don't worry about me. Just worry about keeping your end of the bargain, just worry about bein' ready yourself. I am no longer tied to that place. The moment Courtland fancied himself for ruler and master, I was down, I was on that list, ready to bow out. Not my world anymore. But before you go setting shit in stone, make sure you're ready. I won't go down like Catherine. I'm gettin' out, I ain't goin' down. Not me. Not me."

He didn't bother to thank her - she wasn't doing it for him, it was for Reagan - but he said, "I'll tell you."

But you were never you. You were always ready with another excuse - one more mission, one more want (when you didn't know what that meant, what you wanted, what you _needed_) - anything to take your mind from the truth, the truth that you'd see, every time you looked into the mirror. Never been me. So who have I been? And where am I? All of this, who was it for, it not for me, if not for the people _I_ love, the things that matter to me? Whose fucking life have I been leading? Why can't I live my life?

But who are you, hon? Look into my eyes: Are you even in there? Tell me, did you bow out before you were even called to the stage? Was it stage fright, or something else? Were you never meant to be? Is that what you really thought? As though you could know, hon. As though you could. When you couldn't see the fool you've been, all these years. Your own worst enemy.

Look into my eyes: Tell me something. Tell me something, through your eyes. I miss you and I don't even know you. I'm looking. What are you doing?

She didn't cry.

He did.

She didn't offer any words. He already knew. If he didn't already feel it, her words would be lost. Say all you want, but I'll still feel the way I feel. I could lie, say your words had really moved me, when they'd meant not a thing, but that would be untrue, and you don't need that, not more of that. You could lie, too, say all your _human_ words, but how can you reach me when, inside, I'm already dead? I'm not even alive.

So she just sat there, and he did too.

.

She didn't see Jarod - hadn't even _felt_ him - until he was there. Where'd you come from, baby?

But he didn't answer her. Don't you know what to do when someone cries? Took a seat beside Lyle and put his arms around him. Yes, you are real. You always were. Yes, I care. I care for myself, I care for you. Here you are. How can I not?

_Stalker_, she mouthed. By the way, guess no one told you never to pet animals that don't know you, that haven't grown up with you. Do I bother tellin' you now? There ain't no language you can reach them with, there ain't no way to get started. Wanna get bit, go on, keep on bein' smart like you are. Got no one to blame but you.

They could talk about it for hours, and he'd still come back with the same answer, every time: He's not some strange animal, he's one of us, he's human. If you treat them different, then they'll act it. Separation, segregation, estrangement, inequality, these are the true evils of the world. You know because they did it to you, too. But we're not them, we're just one part of this world, and they, one more part. Let's be the best part. We always have the coolest parties!

She resisted the urge to roll her eyes. The last party they'd been to together? Hadn't that been her mother's wake? Ah, not _cool_!

_You're still a _stalker_!_

"Is it your head?"

Parker frowned, leant closer. _What are _you_ on about?_

Lyle pulled himself together forcibly, met Jarod's eyes unwaveringly.

_What _are_ you _both_ on about?_

Jarod glanced at her briefly.

"What?"

He looked away.

"What!" She stood up. When was she gonna get answers, huh? What was Jarod doing here? And why was he acting all nicey-nice with the fruitcake?

"You must know they only want you for that thing in your head," Jarod said, to Lyle. "If killing you is the only way to get it, they'll do it. The kid is dead. They're not getting him back. No matter what they do. But there is something they can salvage from this situation, something they can get back. They want what's theirs. They've had to wait long enough. You think they'll think twice? Not a chance!"

Lyle said nothing, but his gaze didn't budge.

Parker narrowed her eyes, watching them darkly. What was the freak trying to tell Jarod without telling him? Something he didn't want her knowing?

Jarod turned his attention to Parker, brushing Lyle's hand from his arm. No, don't stop me. "Your brother's done something stupid."

"He's not my brother," she said. "Everything he does is stupid."

"Not this stupid," Jarod replied.

"Gob-smack me," Parker challenged, widening her eyes in amusement. _This_, she _had_ to hear!

"Brown's just had to hand over Lyle's medical records to his superiors, so now they know, too. He's in a lot of trouble, I think. But that's not our worry. What is interesting, however, is the depths of stupidity Lyle is willing to sink to to convince you he's your brother. I find the whole thing frankly disturbing." He brushed Lyle's hand from his arm. _Give it a rest!_ Lyle started crying again.

Parker found _that_ disturbing. "Is it absolutely imperative you tell me?" she asked, with mock seriousness. "I think I'm going to gag. Make it stop!"

"To understand why, yes," Jarod answered.

She nodded. "Or is it just to let me know it's _my fault_, once again? Do I get landed with the blame for _everything_ that," she scrunched up her face, "_baby_ does?"

"I've never blamed you for anything Lyle's done," Jarod replied evenly. "I don't know where you got that idea, but it's false."

She shrugged. "In that case, if you're going to tell me he went and got himself bionic-ed, then don't bother. You made it pretty obvious." She hummed along to a county song on the radio, for a moment. Yikes!, I _know_ that one! Good thing or a bad thing? "Yadda, yadda... 'They only want you for that thing in your head...' I know he hasn't got a brain, so what else could it be?"

"But why?"

She gave it a moment's thought. "Why, to impress Sydney, of course!"

Jarod shook his head, shooting her a strange look. Not everything was about Sydney, jeez. Did she always have to palm everything off on him?

"No?" She shrugged. "I give up. Why?"

"Because of you."

She snorted and cracked up. "I'm not gonna blame you, baby! Pinky promise!" Shooting daggers from her eyes, she snarled, "You _absolute_ liar!"

"And I'm not blaming you, still," Jarod returned calmly.

She laughed, rolling her eyes. Oh, oh yeah. B-b-believable. NOT!

"It's not your fault," Lyle mumbled, just loud enough for them to hear.

Parker had to restrain herself from going over there and beating him to _death_! Fucking asshole!

"He wanted you to believe he was your brother, but the simple reality is: he isn't."

"I _know_ that!" Parker growled.

"Your brother is dead, Parker."

Parker scowled, but stayed silent; eyes dark.

"Lyle's upgrades aren't just your standard issue biomech upgrades. They're your brother's. They're Noah's."

She was silent for a second longer, then she rounded on Lyle viciously. "_You_ told me his name was _Theodore_!" she hissed with venom.

"Yes, well it was," Jarod agreed. "Noah was his codename."

Parker didn't take her eyes from Lyle, her gaze deadly.

"Parker?"

Not even a blink.

"Parker, leave him alone." Jarod made to step in between them, but one look from her was all it took to stop him. Literally. He couldn't move. He winced and tried to catch her eyes. _Come on, Parker, don't do this. You don't want this on your conscience. You don't have long to wait, hon. Just wait it out. Baby, please! _"He was already dead," he whispered.

Parker tore her menacing gaze from Lyle's. Her glare, when it landed on the table, cracked both the mug of coffee and the empty glass. Coffee leaked onto the tablecloth.

"I hope they kill you slowly," she hissed, and stalked away, for the door.

"You didn't have to tell her," Lyle said, finally, but Jarod merely shot him a disgusted glance and stalked out after Parker. No, he didn't! But he _had_. Because _he_ cared - he didn't just _pretend_!

.

Hand in his hair, Jarod turned on the spot; Parker, standing on the curb, arms crossed, face glaring. "What do we do, Mel? Do we just let them get their hands on that shit? Is that what we do?"

Parker snorted, then she rounded on him, her eyes murderous. "No, you _fuck_, we beat his brains out and get rid of it!"

Jarod stepped back from her, frowning. Was she serious?

She smiled sinisterly. "Or do you have any genius ideas?" She scowled. "How'd you get your hands on Tower shit, freak?"

"I got lucky."

"Fuck you!" she spat.

"Yeah." He tended to agree.

She laughed, eyes dancing, suddenly hysterical.

Jarod felt suddenly frightened, without being able to say why. No. That wasn't right. He could say why _exactly_, he just didn't see why why, just didn't understand why he was _so_ freaked out!

Parker took out her gun. "No choice," she dropped, and slipped past him and strode off.

He spun about, frantically. No! She couldn't just- just-! She just couldn't! Not like this! They could- They could-

But there was nothing for them to do. Absolutely nothing. Noah's upgrades _were_ Noah, had been Noah.

The biological component of the upgrades was engineered specifically for their recipient, according to their DNA. Most upgrades couldn't be separated from their recipient and live, because they were alive, too, and getting them out of the recipient's brain without causing death wasn't yet a reality. They were synched in with their recipient and did more than just offer a channel for communication with electronic devices and machinery, they gathered vital information about both their day-to-day operations and their recipient, all of which was stored in the monitor, a separate, but interlinked, and wholly organic device, usually implanted into the recipient's leg.

All of this information could be collected and reviewed using an MU, a management unit. Noah's upgrades were not like other upgrades, however. They were the first prototype upgrades _not_ to kill their recipient. They were special. And they might just have contained vital information about Noah's DNA.

However they'd survived the death of their recipient, didn't even matter. Healers had likely been involved. Years and years of experimentation. Perhaps Noah hadn't died when they thought he had, but, eventually, he _had_. Maybe the Tower would try to get Lyle to give up whatever he knew about that, before they killed him: Who'd taken the kid? What had they done with the body? Was anything recoverable?, but, in the end, they _would_ kill him.

If he ran, they _would_ find him.

If he'd ever meant anything to them, in the past, all that was done with. All he meant now was getting back something they'd had taken from them a long time ago, something that had been _theirs_!

Parker was right. They couldn't let the Tower get their hands on those upgrades. But was _he_ willing to kill someone to stop them from doing so? Was he willing to stand by while _Parker_ killed someone, while his _friend_ killed someone?

Yes, he was a monster. No, no one would miss him. But was Parker a monster? Her actions justified, or not. The answer was _no_. She was not.

So he had to go after her.

No choice.

.

The plea was cold, to say the least, but he could think of no other way to get through to her. None at all. This was someone she'd have been _genuinely happy_ to see dead. She left him no other choice. Say nothing, and that would be the end of it. She already had the gun aimed at his head; the terrified waitress hiding behind the counter. He had _no_ choice.

"What if he's not dead?" Desperate, cold, _no choice_.

His words had the desired effect. Mostly.

Parker froze. The gun stayed right where it was, her eyes remained as deadly as before. She glared murderously at Lyle. _Which was it? Dead, or alive?_

Given the opportunity, Jarod fully expected him to lie, to say _anything_, anything to get Parker to change her mind and put the gun down.

"He's dead," Lyle told her calmly. Just couldn't fucking lie! Couldn't accept charity - if it came from Jarod! Had to play the Plain Crazy card! _You see, I _do_ love you! How could I hurt you again?_

Parker smiled.

The waitress - Clementine - came out to collect their empty cups, perfectly normal. No, she hadn't been hiding behind the counter; no, she wasn't scared. For a couple of seconds of ringing silence, Jarod couldn't figure it out. What, what was going on here? And then, _Empath in the room._

"If you're hungry, we put the prices down _twelve percent after twelve_," Clementine told them, with a small nod, bit of a sing-song at the end there. Company jingle, p'rhaps? She frowned at the coffee on the tablecloth, glanced at the mug. Hissed. Crappy, crappy dishwasher! Crappy eyes, Clem!

"I'm really sorry about your coffee, ma'am," she said quickly, to Parker. "Look, if you want another drink, it's on the house."

Annoyed, Parker made a show of frowning. What had happened there? She put her gun down. "Never even noticed, to be honest."

The girl shrugged one shoulder. "Myself, I think it was the dishwasher, frankly. May be the porcelain's a bit cheap and not equipped to take that kind of heat. It does chip really easy. I'm real sorry. You didn't get burned, did you?" She looked worried, all of a sudden.

"No."

"Thank goodness. I'm so sorry."

"It's fine."

Clem put a hand to her chest, nodded, gave a sigh of relief, collected up her plastic tub and walked away, back to the counter.

"Anyone hungry?" Jarod asked, glancing up from his watch. It was 12:01. Checked the clock on the wall. Yep. 12:01. "Why don't we just relax, think this thing through some? Mel?"

"Don't call me that!" she growled.

He put his hands up.

She snatched the menu off the table, glared down at it.

Jarod passed Lyle a serviette. No more crying, huh. He moved to join Parker, looking at the menu. As he did, out of the corner of his eye, he thought he saw a little girl standing by Lyle, as though hiding behind him. He stopped, took a proper look. "Mel?"

Parker put a hand out, shoved him away, didn't even bother to look at him. Absently, "Get your own."

He frowned. The little girl stared him down. His eyes went to Lyle's face. He was staring at the ceiling, blinking; don't cry now.

The little girl held onto Lyle's hand, but he didn't seem to notice. Her steady gaze was dark, challenging. _Mine!_ her eyes said. _Just you _try_ take it from me!_ She let go of Lyle's hand, turned away-

Jarod stumbled back, his eyes snapping to Parker in offence - Why'd you shove me for, woman? He took the menu card from her, glaring dirtily. A quick look told him the little girl was gone. He stared at Parker hard. What was going on with her? Had that little girl been real, really a part of Parker, or just one more of Lyle's Empath tricks?

Adele's _Rolling in the Deep_ played over the radio; TV played some late night talk show.

Jarod grabbed Parker's arm, earning a filthy look from her. "I could use a coffee. You?"

She yanked her arm back, glared. "I'm not blind!" she spat, and stalked off to the counter. At the counter, she waited for him to catch her up. What the fuck did he want to say to her, then? Freak!

"How you feelin'?" he asked.

A filthy glare.

He leant closer, held back a sigh, changed his mind. Goin' crazy. He was goin' crazy. Just goin' crazy. Any wonder? "Howzit, Missy? Honest."

"What the eff, Jarod? Honest. You ain't comin' on to me, are you? Cos if you is, boy, I'm gonna haf to-"

"No!"

"Boy killjoy," she muttered back, to his horrified tone. "Can't even give a girl a break, tell her a funny joke. Make her laugh. I nearly _shot_ someone!" This a harsh whisper.

He touched her arm gently, his expression undecided. What... what did she want, exactly? What would fly?

"How'd you find us?"

"Followed you from home."

She laughed. "No you didn't!"

"Yes, I did."

"You're such a stalker."

"I know."

"Dangerous."

"Know that, too."

"Stoopit."

"Yep." He met her eyes. "Me and you, Missy girl. Friends."

"Friends," she returned quietly. "Thank you for coming, J-"

He put a hand up. "You're important to me, Parker. I consider you a friend. I'd like to think, also, that I am important to you, in some small way. Friends don't have to say _thank you_, they've just gotta be there, and be real. And here you are. The real you."

"Thank you, nevertheless."

"That's alright."

She smiled. Yeah, I knew it would be. She looked back to the table they'd left. Just look at that miserable thing. Miserable lump. Smashing much? Charming much? No, not actually.


	11. Chapter 11

Trentham - "But I go by Trent" - was a friend of her father. According to de Berg, he was a bit of a dish. All told, Margaret was partial to him. He seemed like a nice young man. Well spoken, neatly dressed, very nice (dark green) eyes. Nice, in other words. Just a nice young man. Of course, he wasn't exactly young. Younger than Margaret and Charles, even younger than Emily; youngish, but not young, not anymore. Thirty-one didn't count as young, did it? It wasn't old, but it wasn't young anymore, was it? Emily wouldn't have said so. She knew what her mother's game was, too. Had figured onto it in a snap. Nice young (unattached) man. Wink, wink.

_No thank you_, she'd thought, at once. Seeming to be and actually being were two different things. If there was going to be any _getting together_, she'd have to get to know him a lot better, and he'd have to get to know her, and he didn't seem exceptionally interested in her, truth be told.

She wished Jarod were back from his latest escapade - escaping seemed to be a forte of his - at least, with him around, Margaret might have toned it down with the looks, all of those _Why don't you go talk with him?_ looks; _Make an effort_, _Do something nice for him_ looks. She was tired of the looks. Margaret would be giving her one of those looks, that she was so tired of, and her mind would start to wander, and she'd just think, _Why?_ She couldn't stop herself from thinking _Why?_ Why save her from T-Corp, only to, a few years down the track, throw her out some window? What did he think she was, that she could just get back up and brush herself down after something like that? Well, no, she couldn't. Or had he just taken her off T-Corp's hands to distance Mel from them, so that there'd be nothing left for her to come back for, to come back to, no ties left unbroken? Had it been for the Centre's benefit, as much as his own. They'd tell that she'd died, Mel would believe it, would have no more friends. There'd be no one. The perfect opportunity for him to step in and say, _Hey, I'll be your friend_.

Except, he hadn't. The fool! What had he been waiting for? Had the company sent him on some assignment he couldn't refuse, and he'd lost his opportunity? If so, then he was doubly a fool! she thought darkly. No foresight! Deplorable, coming from a Class Five Empath! Absolutely deplorable!

And all of this brother/twin nonsense. Whose bright idea had that been exactly? Whoever had come up with it wasn't very intelligent, not very bright, them. There was absolutely no connection between Parker and Lyle from Parker's end. They must have seen that, at the very least. If there was anything, it was hatred. Hate, pure and simple. Did they really think Lyle could work with that, could turn it around somehow, the way he'd set about tackling it? They must have been stupid _and_ blind.

Was it deliberate, from his end? A secret, underlying hint. I'm not your brother; he's dead. Didn't last long, that one. _I'm_ not him. But maybe we can be friends. I wouldn't leave you like he did. Sick, sick, sick.

She frowned, picking up a potato yet to be peeled and starting on it. Margaret wanted to make potato salad. Emily assumed that meant Trent liked it; that Margaret would be saying "Emily peeled the potatoes perfectly", _all_ through lunch. The thought, alone, was enough to make her want to roll her eyes. She didn't, though. Margaret would have noticed and immediately pounced on her with 101 questions. _No thanks._

She made an effort to remember back to 1982, back to what she remembered of Lyle as a young man. He must just have finished up with college in Virginia, with those two girls he'd murdered; Tazu and Chiyo. Would he have been in Canada on holiday, or on business? Or had he been working there? What exactly had Naomi told him about her? Why had it been important to them that she not fall into the hands of the Centre, or the likes? She was just a Mediator. Sure, she'd been Miss Parker's Mediator, for a couple of years, but nonetheless: just a Mediator. Was it because she was Jarod's sister? Had they known that she was? And how did that change the picture?

Every time she thought about it, more and more questions seemed to pop up, with absolutely no answers.

It must have been Naomi, mustn't it? Can't've thought it up of his own accord; wasn't that smart, didn't have that kind of foresight. Jarod's sister; want that one alive, could come in handy later, when holding crap over Jarod. _Nice piece of work, that boy_, she thought. Nice and then some.

She tried to change the topic, but the questions came back to bug her. Why, why, why? Always _why_.

It was an important question that couldn't merely be answered by _Why not?_ It went deeper than that. It wasn't just about Naomi's motives, Naomi's interests in her, in Miss Parker, in Jarod. It wasn't about the company Lyle secretly worked for, it was about him. What was the thinking? And why the frig was he so obsessed with Parker? With her (ex-) best friend? Was it, yet again, something to do with the Centre's crazy prophecies?

Was he really giving up? Is that why he'd offered no objection to Parker's _Not my brother_ stuff? Was he that worried about the upcoming transfer, that it would spell the end, that he'd decided he should start thinking about his (spiritual) future, about the crap he no longer wanted on his conscience, the lies? In which case, he might have apologised to her for trying to kill her, or for killing her brother, Kyle. For any number of things, really. But he hadn't. Did he even believe in spirituality? She didn't know. He could say whatever he wanted. Chances were, it would be another lie. She had no way of knowing.

Okay, 22. How had he been the same at 22, and how had he been different? He'd been quieter, she supposed; more able to shut his mouth and keep it shut, not so impressed with the sound of his own voice. He hadn't been happy then, either, so that was nothing new. But he hadn't tried to hide it, the way he did now. At least- well, to be fair, she had been just a kid, twelve going on thirteen. Still, the school had had her down as fifteen. She didn't trust him for a second. So, that was another thing: he hadn't tried making any passes at her. And she couldn't remember him doing so to anyone else, either. Why not? Just not his type? Didn't trust himself maybe? Maybe Naomi would think it suspicious behaviour? Had they been following the mission closely?

Analysing it didn't seem to help one iota. It all remained as mysterious as ever. Nothing doing.

Any connection to the Mysterious Healer? she wondered. Maybe that was it. They'd heard about her being Healed by this mysterious, whizbang Healer and had wanted to know more. Then, what had stopped them? Or had they merely made her forget? She suppressed a shiver. Creepy thought. Maybe they had. Then what? They'd got something; they hadn't? What? She felt suddenly annoyed. It was like banging her head against a brick wall, trying to glean anything from the fragments of her past. It was more than infuriating.

But it was distracting, because the next time Margaret shot her one of those looks, she almost had to ask her what she was about, before it finally clicked into place, _Oh, more of that, then, huh._

But why not shoot her? Why turf her out some window? A test, maybe? To see if the Mysterious Healer was still interested in her? To see who MH had really been interested in, in the first place: her or Parker? Then, when she'd survived her first test, what, they'd come back for seconds? Thought, _Let's see how good this weirdo really is! Can they... say, Heal a bullet in the head?_

_Freaks, freaks, freaks!_ They were all just freaks! It hurt her stomach, just thinking about it; made her want to be ill. And why the Hell had Lyle had anything to do with their crappy behaviour? He thought, maybe, Catherine was still alive? Maybe she could have come for him, but she hadn't? Could have saved _Mel_, at least, but hadn't? (Her precious angel!) What, he felt betrayed? Some _You never told me you'd been Healed by some magical Healer!_ shit? Could have followed up on that, could have done shit with that! Mysterious Healer!

"Oh, get over yourself!" she felt like snapping, but, _hello_, it wasn't as though it would mean anything. She was here, standing by some sink peeling potatoes for lunch, and he was someplace else, doing God knew what. Nope, wouldn't help a smidge.

.

She'd been sitting around, waiting for the freak to wake up, for two hours. _Easy_, two hours! Gun in her hand. She was dead bored. Dead _Goddamn_ bored.

"Any luck?" Jarod asked, suddenly, from the doorway, and she realised that he'd probably been standing there for quite some time, just watching her. "What are you thinking?"

"I don't know what to think," she replied simply, sighing.

"Perhaps, with a Healer..."

"Healers don't play around with people's brains, as a rule," she told him. "Best way to kill someone dead - go for the head shot. Healers won't even bother with them, after that. Someone from one o' them places shoots you in the chest, you know they want you alive. Best to bring along your own gun; things get too rough, you know what to do. They can't control _everything_! Show 'em who's boss. You are! When it comes to your body, your mind - it's your friggin' business, no-one else's! Yours alone!"

"You're upset-"

"I'm not upset!"

"Yes, I think you are."

"I'm not."

"I'm... not upset, but... disappointed, I guess you could say. No-one's gonna hold it against you if you are upset. You thought-"

"I _never_ believed that story!" she hissed vehemently.

He couldn't win. She wasn't ready to admit she was pissed at the freak for doing something like that. Heck, he was... well, actually, he _was_ pissed about it. It was a damn stupid thing to do, for whatever reason, but to do so for such a shallow reason, made it all the worse! And considering that he'd had to have done it after Reagan had been born - as though he really couldn't give a stuff if the kid had no-one, no mother, no father, who cares! - he was all the more annoyed, all the more pissed. Just because he was crazy and fucked-up didn't mean Reagan had to be, too. How could any sane person want something for their kid that they never wanted for themselves in the first place, a shitty fucking upbringing, along with all the rest? You'd have to be insane, he thought, if you had _any_ other choice. Completely insane!

He walked over to the bed, leant down to shake Lyle's arm. Time to wake up, zap back from La La Land, or wherever it was he'd gone. They had matters to discuss. Important matters.

.

"Noah's upgrades. Where'd you come by them?"

"Think I'll skip, ta," Lyle replied coldly.

Parker rolled her eyes, shot Jarod a _Told you so_ look.

"Was it your bright idea, or someone else's? Raines's, perhaps?"

"You're kidding me, right." Lyle shook his head.

"Raines doesn't believe in that shit," Parker filled Jarod in. "Anything that comes out of Africa, he doesn't trust it. He also believes the Africans are making/stashing - who knows - you guessed it - aliens! The guy's not all there in the upstairs, if you catch my drift." She threw Lyle a glare. "No, you were always the clever one, with all the clever ideas. What do you want to bet Raines doesn't know shit about this, and he's only just hearing about it now, if at all?"

"He doesn't own me," Lyle said simply.

"No, because if he did, you'd actually _have_ some brains in that stupid head of yours!" Parker scowled.

"Like Angelo, you mean," he replied darkly.

Parker growled.

"If he's _so smart_, why hasn't he skipped town already, hmm? Why's he stuck around?"

"_You fuck!_"

"Look," Jarod interrupted, before Parker could leave her seat, "think about it, okay. Where would he go? In his condition? Where would he go where he wouldn't be putting himself, and possibly any others he came across, in danger? It's not as easy as you think, Lyle."

"You're wrong. It _is_ easy. _Leaving_ is easy. He's just too stupid-"

Parker shot to her feet, an ugly expression on her face.

"Come on then," Lyle challenged, standing up, too. "I can take you on any day, lady. You think you're _so_ tough, but you're not. You think you're so clever, but you're not. You don't know anything, in reality. You're just a typical fe-"

She got out her gun and aimed it at his head.

"A typical female," he finished, with a smile. And that just proved him point. "Got a spot of redecorating on your mind, Melody? Be my guest, darl. Be my guest. I ain't gonna stop ya."

"Melanie," Jarod offered, getting to his feet. "It's Melanie, not Melody. You claim to be her brother, and you can't even get her _name_ right?"

"We're all waiting on you, baby doll," Lyle reminded her. "What's it gonna be?"

"Fuck you!" she spat. "I say we let them have him! Let them play around with his brain and kill him, if that's what he wants!"

"The Tower have Healers. I ain't worried. They're gonna want to know the same shit you guys wanna know - where'd I come by the crazy kid's upgrades?, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera." He smiled smugly. "They ain't gonna kill me that quick - or else, _no answers_!" And wouldn't that be a pity!

"I think you're misjudging the situation a little, here," Jarod put in. "You're assuming they give a shit what you have to say, as though your track record's been so squeaky clean. We all know the truth, that it hasn't been. That they don't trust you. Even if you _tell_ them the truth, they're gonna wonder if it really _is_ the truth. You can't go on pressing your luck forever, Lyle. One day it's gonna _snap!_, and that'll be the end of that. You're not that damn good an Empath, I can assure you!"

Lyle scowled darkly as though to say, _Fuck you, too. Like _you_'d know, Pretender._

Parker put her gun away. "I don't care anymore. Let them have him. Let them have the Goddamn upgrades! Like I could care less." She walked out of the room. That was it. She'd had it.

"You really think they can be trusted," Jarod said sourly. "_You_, who've had Noah's upgrades for, what, four, five years now? You're still going to go ahead, shoot when they say shoot, jump when they say jump, come when they say come? How stupid can be you be? You're just _money_ to them! And right now, you're not making the company a lot in the way of money. To be fair, you never did. You're deluded. Plain and simple. Deluded. There's no other word for it." With that, he left the way he'd come.

.

Lyle sat down on the bed heavily. There was no way out of it. Now that the Tower knew, he couldn't just disappear. They'd come looking for him, they'd hurt anyone he'd ever spoken two words to, they'd use every trick in the book to get him to come out, give himself up. To the Tower, everyone was property, everyone was an asset. A good asset made money, a good asset was worth what they'd put in, to acquire it, and more. In their opinion, he was a very, very bad asset. A shit stupid asset. Raines had always been good at choosing them, though, hadn't he? That's what they'd say. Always been good at that. What a fucking loser! But the thing in his head... now _that_ was worth something! If only for sentimental value. They'd be able to sell it back to the Africans for a pretty buck, if it proved of no real use any other way. It _was_ just a prototype biotech upgrade and it wasn't as though they were experts in upgrading anyway. Sure, they had people working on it - they'd had people working on it the moment the Africans had released it, it seemed. They were still working on it, as they would be tomorrow, and the day after, and the day after that.

He wasn't that great of a tech, or a Sweeper, or an L7 operative, or a translator. He was replaceable. In every aspect. And he sure as shit wasn't a human being. Not a proper one, anyway. Nothing like Cathy at all, though he'd been getting around with the intent of fooling people into believing him to be her son. A half-hearted attempt, if that, that showed just how pathetic he was as an Empath, as _anything_.

But what choice did he have?

And if they discovered his true identity... He'd have to lie, he thought. He'd just have to lie. They didn't have Noah's DNA; sure, they could run a comparison with Parker's DNA, with Catherine's, even, but they'd just be letting themselves in for him to make up some tall tale, some lie, if they did that. All he had to do was lie.

Though, there was one small other thing. Before he did anything else, he'd have to get rid of it. He'd have to get rid of his monitor.

.

Parker sipped her hot coffee pensively, her eyes watching the traffic moving past outside the window absently, though, in reality, her gaze was anything but absent. She saw more than people thought she saw, it was what she'd been trained for, in T-Corp. To watch, to take note, to remember. To always remember.

Now, she felt sick. Flustered by it all. Would rather have been back in Blue Cove, with the ocean just a hop, step and a jump away, outside her door. With the trees, watching from afar, silently, a dark shadow that rarely moved, rarely changed. A constant.

The air here was choking, the water just as choking. City water. Back in boarding school, the water had been _oh, so much_ better, less choc-full of chemicals. Had never given her a funny stomach, rashes; nothing of the sort. Sometimes, she longed to be away from it all.

Sam, she'd heard talking about something Lyle had said, whingeing as ever, about his _rented_ townhouse. She'd never have gotten near one, to be honest; and never one right across from a park - with a children's playground! No backyard, to speak of. Just a cobbled thing, barely big enough for a clothes line; big, high wall behind which lay an old, out-of-commission factory. Nope, no way. Would never have gotten her near it for the life of her!

Why d'you want a backyard? Sam had asked. It's just a load of work. Yes, they're nice, but when you're off somewhere else half the time, they're also damn costly to have someone else come in and maintain them!

She'd tended to agree with Sam.

A garden. You want one so you can have a garden, had apparently been Lyle's response. Which had suitably astounded Sam. Where'd that come from, all of a sudden? Joking. Of course, he was ready with some overused rhetoric: You can take the boy off of the farm, but you can't take the farm out of the boy.

So much bull, she'd thought. Lyle had never even grown up on a farm. _Around_ farms, yes, but not _on_ one. His grandparents had had a farm, but his father, Lyle Bowman, had been a banker. Hadn't even worked in town, but in the town over; bigger, flashier, apparently. And his mom, Elsie, had been a hairdresser (and a serial whinger). Surprise, surprise! No wonder where the kid had got it from, snotnosed freak. Didn't like Daddy, but Mommy... sure, Mommy's my friend. Mommy doesn't lock me in the shed. Lame-tastic not-even-a-farmy-thing shed! Had used to be a farm, the property, but no longer. Daddy fancied himself something important in the world of money, of _banking_; he didn't care about no stinking old farm! Daddy was lame. But Mom (the whinger), sure, she was cool. If someone does something shitty to you, you just better let them, then, when you got a chance to do something shitty back to someone else (it didn't matter who, just as long as it was a sure thing), you damn well took that chance and felt like a million bucks for doing so!

_Whinger and a bitch_, Parker thought. Yeah, that was Lyle. All over, that was him.

When people did shitty things to her, she didn't whinge or bitch, she didn't even really take it out on other people, mostly just herself. And Jarod, he didn't either. So why was Lyle any different? Why did he think he was so special? He was just a fucked-up freak overly impressed with his own importance! He didn't even get that by devaluing the people around you, you were devaluing your own importance, too. You weren't _more_ important, you were just one more scumbag! Nothing more than a sore loser, she thought.

Who deserved everything that came to him!

But, yes, she would like a place in the country. Now, at this particular moment in time, it sounded good. Better than good. Great! And if the fucked-up freak came through with his promise, she'd have some company out there, amongst the trees, the unpaved ground underfoot and un-smoggy skies.

She might even come to like it, might even get used to it. In time.

.

It was too much, he'd never get the thing out himself; it had grown too much. Of course, he'd known this for a long time, he'd just thought... He hadn't been ready to give up, yet. But now, he saw that he had no choice. If he was going to protect his family, he'd have to die. Not just die, but... but he'd have to find some way to destroy the colony and the monitor at the same time, so that way he'd have no chance of coming back if the Tower brought their Healers in on it. An explosion, a fire... yes, it would have to be something like that.

He'd find a way for Parker and Reagan to get out, and then he'd have to leave. He'd have to... die. There was no way around it. If he did it right, it may not even hurt Parker or Emily or anyone else. He just had to... to do it right. He didn't want to leave them, but if that was what it would take to keep them safe, then... then it didn't matter, he decided. He would do it.

He just had to get through the next couple of days without... making things too hard for anyone. As he normally would, he thought. He'd just carry on as he normally would. Until it was time.

"What about your sister?" Tazu asked, now. "Can't she help?"

"I refuse to involve her in this and put her life in danger any further," he replied simply.

She shook her head, sitting on the end of the bed with her knees drawn up and her arms wrapped around them tightly. She didn't like this idea one little bit. It sucked being dead. It absolutely _sucked_. She'd never wish it on anyone else. Now, she wished she'd found a way to let go, to move on. She didn't want any part in this plan. "Amy," she forced herself to say. "Bobby's alter. You could-"

"No! I won't put her in danger, either. Absolutely out of the question, Tazu."

So stupid. It was so stupid, Tazu thought, holding back tears. "She's... she's not really your sister. She's another part of you. All this time, you've been thinking of... of Bobby and Amy and Teddy as your siblings, but they're not. They're you. Parker integrated with Molly. I think... I think you need to do the same. At least, with Amy. You need to bring her up to speed. We _need_ her!"

He laughed. "We? We're not... This isn't _your_ decision, Tazu!"

She shot up off the bed, anger in her eyes. "I don't want you to die!" she yelled, suddenly. "You're my best friend! If you die, then... Then I'll be _stuck here_, like this... alone..." A couple of tears escaped her eyes, but she brushed them away.

"I won't kill my sister!" he said stiffly.

"You promised to help me move on!" she bit back accusingly. He'd damn well _promised_!

"Go! If you need me to tell you, I'm telling you now. Just _go_! Get lost!"

She stomped her foot. "I _can't_!" Her voice took on a desperate whine. "She's not your sister, she's you!"

"I'm sorry, Tazu, but I don't believe that."

"You just _don't want_ to believe it!" she snapped back, tears pouring down her face. So pathetic! So, so pathetic! She was a spirit. Couldn't she just... possess him or something? He'd let Jimmy say goodbye to his daughter, when it had been time for him to move on. Why couldn't she just... force her point! She couldn't just let him kill himself! And she couldn't... she couldn't involve Reagan in it, either. The boy would have been able to see her, too, just as he'd seen Kyle and Thomas, but she couldn't... she couldn't do that to a _kid_!

"Please!" she pleaded. "Please think about Theodore, think about Bobby! If you love Parker, don't give up yet! There's still a chance he'll come back! I believe in you! You... you'll come up with something! I know you will! Th-then you'll be able to get rid of that thing in your head and... and your m-monitor, and-and..."

"He can't come back if he's not there," Lyle told her simply, meeting her eyes sadly.

"YOU'RE NOT A DIFFERENT PERSON!" she shouted.

"Tazu!" The look he gave her said it was time for her to go; she'd overstepped her mark. She wasn't helping, and now it was time for her to go.

She leapt forward suddenly, snatching up his hands. "You- you can't do this!" she told him shakily. "It's not your body. You... you'll be destroying any chance that Parker has of her brother returning-"

"He never had any intentions of returning, Tazu," Lyle replied. "He's gone. He was gone a long time ago. Miss Parker's brother died when he was four. Bobby, me, we just took the opportunity presented to us. But now it's time to give up. There's nothing more to be done. We can't just think of ourselves anymore. We've had a good go of things, now we have to let go. We've no right endangering Miss Parker or Ethan, or anyone else you can care to name, like that, for our own purposes. I'm ready to let go. And if B isn't, then that's his problem. I'd like to see him try and stop me."

"If you're going to kill Amy anyway, then why not-"

"I'm sick, and I'm tired, and I don't want to have to lie anymore."

Tazu sucked in a rugged breath. "You just think you'll be let of the hook, easy as that; you think you'll be handed a new life, no questions asked. After you _stole_ Theodore's body and mistreated it for years and years!" she shouted. "Oh, no! No! Not if I have anything to say about it, you won't!"

"I didn't know it was stealing. I was- I was _helping_ Bobby. I didn't know he'd appropriated it the way he had, that it'd been abandoned - I didn't know he was planning on abandoning it, too. I had no idea. I can't be held accountable for things I didn't know."

"You didn't _want_ to know!" she spat.

"You're not going to change my mind, no matter what you say. I have to do this. I'm _going_ to do this. I don't care, anymore, what you do. Do whatever you want. I'm not changing my mind. There's nothing more for me here."

"What about Reagan?" Tazu snapped. "What about Emily? What about Parker?"

"Not my concern. Once I'm done, I'm done. Reagan's not my son, he's Theodore's. It's Theodore's body, and if none of us are related in spirit, then he's not my son. He's Brigitte's and Theodore's. He should be with Miss Parker now, with his aunt. And as to Emily. She's not my Convergence partner. She's Theodore's."

Tazu shook her head. "Nope. Not how it works. I don't think that has anything to do with your body; I think it's spiritual. She's _your_ Convergence partner - not Theodore's!"

"I don't care," he replied simply.

"Well you should!"

"I don't. I don't. I don't. How many times must I say it before it gets through to you? I _don't_ care."

"Which just goes to show what sort of a person you really are," she told him. "An asshole!"

"Say what you want to me, Tazu, I'm not going to change my mind."

"If you leave her like this, you'll hurt her!" she shot angrily. "Go on then, you go and tell her your crazy shit plan!"

"Nope. I won't be tellin' her anything. It's none of her business."

"It's damn well her business as much as it is yours!" Tazu snarled. "If you're not gonna tell her, I'll just have to tell her _myself_!"

He laughed. "Be my guest, Miss Iakawa. Be my guest."

She widened her eyes. "And just so you know, I'll be telling Ethan too." That said, she disappeared.

He glared at the spot she'd disappeared from for a long time, then he walked over and sat down on the bed. Why did the girl have to make it so Goddamn hard for him? He was just trying to do the right thing, he was just trying to protect his family, and she couldn't even let him do _that_. He hadn't said he'd be hurting anyone else - at least, no physically, and it wasn't even as though he'd really be hurting them emotionally, either; they'd damn well be better off without him, a lot better off - but Tazu still managed to find something to object to. It was always the same with her. She was still stuck in that rebellious teen stage.

He stifled a sigh and closed his eyes. "Tazu?"

Nothing happened. The girl ghost stayed away.

"Fine. Fine, Tahz. We can give your plan a go. But if anything goes wrong, if there's _any_ trouble, I want you to know I won't be risking it. Tazu?"

He rolled his eyes. "I've got to get back to Blue Cove first, I've got to get Parker and the boy out first. Then we can see about the rest of it. Hmm?"

"Fuck you," she whispered from the closet. "I hate you."

He shrugged. "I can live with that."

.

When Parker and Jarod returned from lunch, he said, "Look, guys, it's fine. Don't worry about me. I've got a plan. It's foolproof," and offered them both a smile. To Parker, he said, "We should be getting back home. I've things to arrange yet, before the Tower shows up with their little welcome wagon. Best to be ready ahead of time, hmmm. What do you say?"

Parker had one word, and one word only. _Bipolar._ She chose a couple of words, in favour. "I say you cut it out with that cutesy patronising tone and we hit the road, you murdering freak!"

"Sounds good to me."

.

To his mind, integrating Amy's and his personality would be akin to killing Amy. They were both parts of separate spirits, after all, so not only would he be killing Amy, but he'd also be killing Bobby. Amy was Bobby's alter, Teddy was his. Two spirits in one body, neither of them the one that the body had been intended for.

In his opinion, Tazu reminded herself. Her, she thought it was a load of crap. They were all the same person. Right back to Theodore himself. But she'd never met Bobby, never met Theodore; never even met Amy. She couldn't say, for sure. If she'd met them, she may have been able to get something, detect some faint variance in their energies. But now she'd never get the chance. When Lyle became Amy again, Amy wouldn't be Amy anymore; she'd be a part of him. She wondered if she might detect some change then, at the least.

Even if she did, she decided, she would say nothing. She'd keep it to herself. To her mind, Convergence wasn't about the body, and when Sam had told Frankie he'd met Amy - Randolph's daughter, going by the name of Bunny, apparently - and he'd felt something with her - something like what he'd felt with Lyle - it had just cemented that thought in her mind. Sam may have been Parker's Convergence partner, and Parker and Lyle weren't the same spirit, but Parker had rejected her Convergence, and Lyle had just happened to be her twin. However that had worked, Tazu had chosen to believe it wasn't the same thing. Amy, Bobby, Lyle - they were all the same person.

So, really, he wouldn't be killing Amy.

If he really believed the shit he said, she didn't know, or if it was just something to say to try to convince her, who knew? Whatever the case, she just knew she wasn't going to let him go ahead and kill himself over some shitty thing the Tower had done. The Tower didn't always get to win - not on her watch! She'd had it with that lot! Had it, simply! They'd killed Thomas, and abandoned Brigitte to die; they'd essentially fucked up Kyle! No, they wouldn't do it to anyone she cared about again! Not again!

She was making a stand!

And if that Dorothy made an appearance again with any more bright ideas - she'd deal with her, too!

She might have been out of a job, but she wasn't out of the business! So she had no body, she was still alive, if not kicking! She wasn't a writeoff yet.

She sat down at the table with Jarod and listened to him talking with his Dad on the phone. Parker and Lyle had gone which had meant she'd finally been able to come out of the wardrobe and give up the hissy fit routine.

She suppressed a sigh and rested her head on Jarod's shoulder. She did appreciate that he'd tried to find out who had killed her and Chiyo, that he'd tried to stop any more girls from being killed, she honestly did. Even if it hadn't quite worked out as he'd envisaged. There was always tomorrow.

He put his cell phone away and sighed. "You know I believe in you," he said to no-one. "Whatever you decide to do, I'll stand behind you. You were there for me when I needed a friend, Melanie. I don't intent to shirk you off just yet. You can't get rid of me that easily." He smiled. "No, I'm here to stay. I know what you're capable of, that you _can_, if you just _want_ to - you can't go back, now. I won't let you. I _know_ you'll be better off if you fight, as a part of all of this. I can hold your hand, when you get tired and it feels like it all might just sweep you away; just say the word, and I'll be there. You can't give up now, Mel. Not now. Don't let them beat you down. You _know_ who you are, deep down inside. It's taken you _this long_ to _really know_, but now that you do - don't _ever_ let them win! I'm with you. You know I am. I'm right here, with you. We stand together, in battle, and we _win_! And if we should go down, we go down fighting. Together. Never, _never_ give in. You and I, Mel. Friends. Until the end."

Tazu frowned. He could feel her! He _could_! And he thought... he thought she was Parker. Which must have meant he had some connection with Parker, she thought. Then, was it her he'd felt, or merely Parker?

Jarod stood up and began getting his things together. When he'd got everything, and he was standing at the door, he said quietly, "I haven't forgotten you. It's going to be alright. When all of this is over, when he's gone, he won't hurt anyone ever again." His tone became suddenly serious. "Not ever again."

She frowned. He... he knew who she was?

"Goodbye, Tazu Iakawa."

She started to smile and that was when she saw what he was holding in his hand. Her old university ID. The one where they'd spelt her name _LAKAWA, Tazu_, (the one that always made her think of Indians with their prettily-decorated clothes and tepees and feathers in their hair); the one from Lyle's wallet. _Hmm, bit of a snitch, eh?_

She slipped out the door, after him, and followed him to the office, where he dropped of the keys for the room.

She couldn't hold it against him, though. He probably thought it was a trophy or something. Even now that he knew Lyle was an Empath, he'd probably only think it all the more. Anyone would have thought the same thing, right?

He didn't know she didn't remember _who_'d killed her. That, even after all these years, she hadn't been able to remember. That she suspected it something to do with the sudden separation from her body. She remembered that when she'd died, she hadn't even known she was dead. Lyle had had to point it out to her. She'd been so hysterical over her friend's death - over Chiyo's dead body - that she hadn't even noticed her own body, close by. And then, when she'd finally clued on, she'd actually thought... no, no, that had been Lyle. He'd been the one who'd thought perhaps Chiyo was still alive. She'd always known, hadn't she? Still, could she help if she'd felt a tiny spark of hope? But then, no, she'd been dead. Lyle had even checked her pulse, checked if she was breathing. Dead. Long dead. She'd been angry at him, then, though she'd never met him. Then he'd left. Probably to let her get her head around the idea that she was dead; actually dead. Despite the tonne of people who'd traipsed around, taking pictures, chattering away and whatnot, none of them had been able to see her, to even sense her. She'd just had to watch them all, playing around with her dead (yucky) body as though it was all a game, a game she wasn't a part of, though she _was_.

She remembered thinking, _I'm dead. How strange. I'm dead, but I'm not._ Then she'd thought, _That poor body. Look at it. Poor thing._

"It's okay," she tried to tell it, "it's okay now." But it was dead, too. _Poor thing. Poor, poor thing._

_Poor Chiyo._

She'd missed her friend, then. A lot of time had been whiled away, just thinking about how much she missed her friend. Her best friend!

It wasn't even as though she'd asked Lyle - he'd been going by Jan then, had had trouble not saying Yahn all the time (she'd found it funny, of course) - but, no, she hadn't asked him to talk to the police, he'd just felt like doing so.

She'd struggled to think up a plausible reason why he might do this (assuming he was sane) and had come to the decision that, no, he was quite insane. Back then, she'd known nothing of what Bobby had done; of how he'd sometimes been asked to find people, when he'd gone to Summer Camp. She hadn't known him then, and she hadn't really felt like talking to a loon. After all, he might well have been the one that had done her in, right? She couldn't remember, could she?

Even now, she supposed, it could still have been him. She just didn't believe it. No, he wasn't to be trusted around dead things. He liked to pat them and talk to them calmly, as though everything was alright, everything was alright now. Even dead animals. It embarrassed her. It was worse than the cheerful mood he'd sometimes take with sick people, or little kids. Far worse. And he was _always_ stopping and talking to little kids! And they'd gladly talk to him back. They'd go on and on. She didn't get it. No little kid had ever talked to her so honestly the way they talked to her loony friend. Why not?

No, Jarod didn't know any of those things. He wasn't meant to know them, so he didn't. He only saw what he wanted to see, what he expected to see, and how easy it had been to cultivate that image, to keep it going. As though almost without trying.

Which was why Tazu was led to believe that Lyle wasn't so enthused about dying, either; he'd just wanted to reassure her, then, failing on that, he'd tried to trick her into thinking, _You know what - stuff you!_ It hadn't worked, though. Might have worked on anyone else, but not on her. They were like Jarod and Parker, she thought. Only, she was Jarod and he was Parker. He didn't always believe in himself, he most definitely didn't always _like_ himself, but the one thing he knew he'd never be able to weasel his way out of, yeah, that was her, caring. Couldn't get out of that one. Not in a million years.

And if he did die, she was going wherever he was going. When they came back - if Parker didn't want him - she'd be his sister, instead. She'd always found it lonely, being an only child. If she had a brother like him - that insecure about everything - she'd have a ball moulding him to her evil designs! Better yet, she thought brightly, hooking him up with that little friend of his. Emily, wasn't that her name? Super awesome! She could be like - the matchmaker sister of doom!

She snorted. Man, what was with her? She was back to her usual thing: lovey-dovey land. Still, she wouldn't have minded catching some pashing action. Sam and that new belle of his, maybe? Jane, wasn't it? The Tower Healer. That could be hot.

She made a face at herself in the glass - Perv-tastic much? - and sat back in the car seat. Maybe Jarod was going back to see his family and his parents would be there... She smiled, then felt like biffing herself. Dude! She'd spent way too much time around Lyle and that creepy elevator. Waaaay too much time.

She brightened. See! See! They were already almost like siblings. They were both sort of pervy!

_Not a good attribute_, she thought, secondarily. Not at all.

Damn! In that case, they were going to be twins, she decided. For sure. And she was gonna hook up with Kyle, in his next life.

_Keep dreaming, sequins_, she told herself sourly. _Ew, and Jarod's right _there_! Traumatic, anyone!_

She shot him a sideways glance, just to be sure. He looked fine. Well, he looked like he always looked. Jarod-y.

She smiled at him and waved. As predicted, nothing happened. She almost sighed in relief, even though, yeah, she was a bit let down. He'd said her name and all, and now it seemed like he didn't even know she was around.

_Hmm_, she shrugged. All the better for her to perv on the lurve action! She refrained from slapping herself over the back of her head and sat on her hands. She really hoped there would be a little love action, and not just _yelling_ action. She'd had her fill of that for the week; possibly, even the entire year.

At the least, she hoped she'd be able to watch DSAs with Jarod. If they were watching any of the ones from SL-8 (Med Space, baby!), maybe they'd spy something favourable. Cherry was always saying that the nurses were, like, the second love-craziest folks in the whole damn place, and the girl _was_ a nurse herself. She had to have some merit, right?

.

"Em? Em, hey?"

Emily opened her eyes, and immediately sat up. Damn, she'd fallen asleep and Tren_tham_ had come over to wake her up. How embarrassing! And weird! And he'd called her "Em". She wanted to say, _I like to think I'm more like Q, actually, that inventor fellow. I'm certainly not the co-ordinator, so I can't be M, and I'm not the _Action stations, everyone!/Pow-wow!_ type, so I can't be James; I'm not even the sit-back-and-take-phone-calls-and-drool-over-some-flimsy-little-fantasy-of-James-and-I-jetting-off-into-the-sunset type, so I can't be Moneypenny, either. Therefore, I've got to be Q, or one of his half-witted military apprentices (no offence, Dad)._

She didn't say that, though, she just stood up and brushed down her clothes. Sitting in barns wasn't the cleanest pastime in the world.

Annoyingly, Trentham didn't leave. He just leant back against the wall and watched her.

Biting back the urge to snap indignantly, _Oi, that's _my_ wall, you! Skedaddle, fella!_, she finished up brushing the dirt off her skirt and smiled. "Thanks for waking me just then. I could have drooled on myself. Which is always embarrassing."

"No problem," he replied easily. "Any time. So you, ah... You're a journalist, huh?" he asked confidently, his moment of uncertainty wiped out and forgotten about.

"Was. Not anymore."

A light of interest came on in his dark green eyes. "Do you miss it?"

She narrowed her eyes, pouted a bit, shook her head. "Mmm... mm-mmm."

He seemed to find that unbelievable. "You don't?"

"No, I actually don't," she replied, realising that she wasn't going to send him away by making over-the-top little kiddy faces. "It's a lot of hard work. A _lot_ of towing the line. Your hard work doesn't always pay off when it's contrary to the company's interests. Then it's just, 'Down the drain with it!' And you get treated to all of these suspicious looks like maybe - just maybe - you're not so much of a team player like you'd made out. And, 'Ooh-ah! Not a good career move.' Tedious! I mean, come on, these guys aren't out there looking for _the truth_, they're out there looking for the biggest _buck_! That's the byline! The bottom line, sweetheart! Moolah! It's like Mulder versus the bad guys, the everyday citizens unaware of just how badly they've misjudged the whole jumbled up thing, the government, _and_ the secret government. Who do you wanna be, exactly? You don't wanna be Mulder. Shit, maybe if you got Scully, too, but they don't even allow you _that_. You want a loving, loyal, committed relationship and these guys are breathing down your neck, wondering who your partner's working for, who you're secretly working for, why you're even _in their employ_ - if your Goddamn life's more important to you than the work!"

She waved her hand about, to make her point. "Frankly, I don't miss it at all!"

"Wow!" he replied, as though sorta flabbergasted. "Listening to your mom, I got this whole other picture of you. I mean, your mom made out like you were this _infallible_ crusader, this big _truth-seeker_, you know! And you're just... you're just this _person_, in reality. You're just... a regular person." He grinned and tossed his head. "But, like, you must feel kinda bummed, letting her down like that, right? I get ya. But... it- it doesn't look like your mom does. I mean, what's going on there? Do you just... like, not talk to her, or something? Or you just talk - pardon me for saying so - but, what, do you just bullshit her around whenever you talk to her? Cos, I mean, me, I don't think that's the right way to treat your folks, you know. Not by a long shot, I gotta say."

Emily forced a smile onto her face. "Listen, Trentham, _fuck you!_" Still smiling, she walked away. What a total _jerk_ - making like he knew the first bloody thing about _her_ or _her mom_, or how they Goddamn interacted! She didn't see how he'd seriously expected her to do anything else but walk away - unless he'd been intending on her slapping him. And then he'd have had just justification to kiss her, or the likes? Because the passion had just been so _palpable_, between them! Practically crackling in the air!

_Excuse me whilst I _puke_!_ she thought darkly, and made her way back up the back steps, and wrenched open the screen door, stepping into the house. She was going to eat something, then she had some cleaning to do. And if there was nothing else to clean, she'd go ask her dad if she could take a look at his truck, maybe sort it into a little better order, top up the water and oil, that sort of thing.

Spending time with Trentham - was not her idea of a fun afternoon! To be frankly honest, she'd rather have taken _Alex_ over that one! And Alex was mad, and dead, but still, she'd rather have hung out with a dead mad person! Which was saying something, she thought.

Passing Margaret in the hall, she whispered darkly, "Kindly refrain from telling Trentham my _life's story_! I don't do that to you. Don't do it to me! And frankly, who the fuck is he? It's none of his Goddamn business, Mom! Just because he's Dad's friend doesn't mean he's trustworthy!" She felt like adding, _And just because de Berg okayed him - doesn't mean a Goddamn thing! She's got you well wrapped around her little finger, hasn't she?_ Resisting, she offered Margaret a scowl and stalked away, shutting the kitchen door after her.

Sitting at the kitchen table, chewing on a handful of sunflower seeds - Where the heck _were_ the mixed nuts? - she didn't hear the door open, or close again. It wasn't until Ethan took a chair out and sat down beside her that she noticed him and made a face. She rolled her eyes. "Have you noticed how Mom's trying to push Trentham on me?"

"I've noticed," he replied, shaking his head at the jar of sunflower seeds she'd passed his way.

"I'm not at all into him, and I have a feeling I'm not going to be changing my mind any time soon! So why can't she just give it a rest? Or is she just _that_ blind?"

"I think she just wants you to be happy, Emily. That's all."

"With Trentham!"

"With someone, yes."

She widened her eyes. "Well, I can tell you now - it's not gonna be with him!"

"You never know, Emily. Maybe you'll change your mind, one day. You'll get to know him a little more, and you'll think, _You know, he's not really such a bad guy, after all_."

She snorted. "I don't think so!"

"But you don't know," Ethan said.

"Oh, I know!" she interjected, with wide eyes.

"Emily, I know you haven't had a lot of boyfriends, in light of which, you know, I think you shouldn't rush to judgment too quickly. I'm not saying it's necessarily going to be Trentham, but I just think you've got to keep your options open. You'll find someone, if you try, Emily; if you look."

She rolled her eyes. "And I really see you out there, looking, don't I?"

"I- I'm not you, Emily. Me, that's a completely different case." He smiled. "I'm an ISP. We... we don't do so well in relationships, you know."

"That's bull, Ethan," she told him. "You're a lovely person. Apart from one thing, hon. You let yourself down. N-no, worse than that, you _put yourself down_! You must look at yourself and... and you must just think you're not all that loveable. But that's bullshit! I don't care if you hear Voices or whatever! I don't care! You are a nice person and you could make someone else _very happy_, and you could be happy, too. Why kill it? Why kill that, before it's even had a chance to live? I don't..." She shook her head. "I don't get that."

Ethan leaned closer. "Okay, you know what: if you're willing to take a chance, I will too."

She scrunched up her face. "No. No! That's not how it works. You dummy, you. Besides, you're cuter than I am!"

"Says you."

She shook her head. "No. No. Can't. Can't do it."

"Why not?"

"I can't."

"Why not?"

She shook her head again, sighing. "You don't wanna know."

"I promise you, I do. I won't run off an' dob you in to Margaret, you know that."

"I know." She undid the lid on the jar of sunflower seeds, then did it back up again. "I can't... I just can't tell you."

"I want to know. What's wrong?"

She rolled her eyes. "Argh! No you don't - you don't want to know, Ethan!"

"Was somebody... hurtful to you in the past?"

Her eyes shot up from her shoes to meet his. "No! No. I just... I'm just..."

"You're afraid of dragging someone you might come to care about into this whole mess?"

She nodded, pushing the jar away with a finger.

"Alternately, if you didn't want to do that, if you chose not to, you'd have to lie to them. If you... if you were to live together, you'd always still have to lie... if anything ever came up in relation to... the- your past. And y-you wouldn't be comfortable with that? In fact, who would be?"

"That's exactly what I'm talking about," she replied. "I... I hate... I hate it, but that's the way it is."

"It doesn't mean you can't go out and meet people and have a nice time."

"I'm not into casual flings, Ethan. I happen to find them childish and selfish. I might as well just-" She fell short.

"Hey," Charles said to them both, leaving the door open and walking into the room. "How's it going?"

"Yeah, I'm good," Emily replied.

"Can't complain," Ethan said.

Charles nodded. "Jarod's on his way back."

"With mixed nuts?" Emily asked, with wide eyes.

Charles frowned.

"They're in the lounge, I think," Ethan told her, and she shot to her feet.

"Cool. Thanks, lil bro!" She ran out of the room.

Ethan made a face, and glanced at Charles.

"Don't look at me," he replied. "She's a mystery to me, too, son."

.

Emily plonked herself down on the couch with the jar of mixed nuts and laughed. Yeah, like she'd actually have said _masturbate_ to Ethan. He'd have thrown up or screamed or fainted or something. She hadn't had a lot of boyfriends or men friends, but she hadn't known Ethan to have been interested in anyone else sexually - ever! She'd have used the word _sheltered_. He knew about sex, of course, he just wasn't... he wasn't the type of person to go on and on about it, at length. It was an intimacy between two people (or just a private thing between one person); it wasn't the whole world's business. She supposed it hadn't helped, the way he'd been conceived. She'd been conceived naturally, as far as she knew. In that regard, she was lucky. The only reason he'd been born was because Raines had wanted a new toy. It was enough to turn anyone off the whole idea of children, if not sexuality, she thought. The poor thing. And she'd been so awful, letting him go on and on. She hadn't thought that perhaps he hadn't liked talking about stuff like that, or that perhaps he was waiting for someone to go first, test the water, so to speak. After all, Jarod had never really had any lasting intimate relationships, and neither had she, and neither had Mo, and look what had happened when Parker had tried. And Lyle... nobody even wanted to think about that loony, she was sure. Definitely not Ethan, in any case. The loon had murdered his wife, not to mention, goodness knew who else, goodness knew how many others. No wonder Ethan didn't want to know him, she thought. Sometimes, she'd really rather she didn't know him, too.

Only, then she'd probably be in a lot of trouble right now, she thought sourly. Not that she owed him anything, to her mind. He was just doing his job. And even if he'd 'rescued' her out of the goodness of his heart, whatever goodness might still have been clinging on for dear life all those years ago was long dead now, so, as far as she saw it, if she was brave enough, if she'd been kind enough, she'd have put him down, and put him out of his misery, once and for all. Unfortunately, she wasn't that brave, and she wasn't that kind. She'd have been able to do it, in self-defence, but never, ever out of kindness. Not ever. Not even to stop him killing all those poor girls. She was really sort of pathetic, she thought. Okay, so if she happened to come across him trying to kill someone, yeah, then _maybe_ she'd be able to... to kill him, but she was squeamish about that shit. She wouldn't have made a good Pretender, she thought. She was too... indecisive, maybe. She'd decide one thing, one minute, then change her mind, the next. It was a crappy quality to have, even if you weren't a Pretender. If you were sure about something, if you absolutely, 100% _knew_ something, then there was no use in changing your mind and hoping you were wrong; nothing would have changed at all, except for you, and if it was important that you acted quickly, you'd probably end up dead, too. Which would be of no use to you whatsoever.

She crunched on some nuts, picking a Brazil nut out of the jar. Apparently, they contained selenium, which, in low does, was good for you. So two Brazil nuts a day was good for you, but it would be best to steer clear of consuming the anti-dandruff shampoo. Not a good idea.

Usually, she wasn't do indecisive, she thought. Not about stuff like what she wanted to wear, or what she wanted to eat, or anything like that, so it was odd, rather odd. And she wasn't the type to go gaga over a cute guy or anything, either. Even the descriptors that came to mind when she looked at nice-looking guys - cute, nice-looking, good-looking! - were so tame it wasn't funny. She didn't think _He's handsome_, or _He's hot_, or _I wouldn't mind shacking up with him_. She never had. It worried her, a little bit, now. Given the way she'd behaved, just a few months ago, yeah, Hell, it worried her! Why the sudden... irregularity in behaviour! Had Lyle somehow influenced her Empathically? Or had it been someone else, another Empath, perhaps? De Berg? Surely, they couldn't truly have Convergence! Her, with someone like him! They were completely... wrong for each other. Even if he'd been sane, they'd still have been all wrong for one another. She wasn't willing to buy the Convergence story that quickly, that easily.

She stared up at the ceiling, wondering to herself. Did she miss him? Was she worried about him? There was that transfer coming up shortly, wasn't there? No, she didn't miss him. She wasn't worried about him. Nothing like that. Had she turned into a salivating, wild temptress thing the last time she'd been around him? Absolutely not. She'd just been... okay. Not worried, not... not really anything. Just okay. So that was that. They didn't have Convergence. He'd just told Parker they did to impress her. Oh, look, the loony mustn't be _that_ loony - if he's got a Convergence partner! Right? Yeah right. She wasn't even his type. It was ultra staged. His Convergence partner would probably be exactly his type, she thought. Someone like Midori, the receptionist at the Centre in Blue Cove. Someone much daintier than her, with dark eyes - brown, probably - and tiny, little hands, and tiny feet that fit into tiny shoes; someone who didn't have a big bottom or much boobs to speak off, who'd be a flyweight to pick up and cart off. Someone who was softly spoken and didn't make dumb comments or ask too many questions or need to be told _everything_, someone with an infectious laugh and a smile that made you want to smile, too, just by looking at it. Someone who wasn't her, she thought. Definitely not her.

He'd been winding her up, that was all. The fucking creep. And it'd worked. The only reason he'd said all that crap about his Empath glamour not working on her wasn't because she was a Mediator (though she hadn't known it, at the time, at least, no consciously), the only reason he'd said it was because he wanted her to believe it, so he could get away with conning her. And he jolly well had, the bastard!

She felt suddenly angry. No, he hadn't hurt hurt her, but just to think he'd used her that way hurt her even more than if he'd actually grabbed her and roughed her around. She'd have been able to fight, then. At least she'd have been able to fight! This way, she'd never even had a chance. She'd just fallen for his stupid little con like the idiot she was! She didn't know who she was more angry at: herself, or him!

If she'd been anyone else, she might have resolved to go out and find someone to hook up with, merely out of revenge, to say, "Eff you, freak! I shag who I want for my own enjoyment, not for anyone else's!", but she wasn't like that, and the thought alone had her stomach feel queasy and hurt. He was gone now, so there was really no point, beside.

The worst thing of all, she conceded, was that she'd actually hugged him, that last time she'd seen him. She wanted to find him and whack him over the face, really very viciously, just for that, for her _own_ stupidity, and for falling for _his_! In reality, he was a stupid, selfish, self-centred person, and she supposed, that was the worst thing of all, that was her biggest crime of all - ever believing him to be anything else.

She felt like a real idiot.

The fact that he kept making her feel like a fool should have signalled something to her, she thought, and, thank Heavens, it finally had. It had taken long enough.

Nope, that was that. She was though with him! After today, she wouldn't think about him ever again, she decided.

And maybe she would go out and meet a nice guy. Maybe she would. Because she deserved a nice guy, she deserved a little bit of happiness. She damn well deserved a lot _more_ than a little, but she'd settle for anything she could get, if she could get it. Maybe she would.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow, she'd start over; she'd look for that little bit of happiness, and if she found it, she'd hang on for dear life. Yep, tomorrow was going to be great. Better than great! She didn't even _know_ what great was yet, she just thought she did.


	12. Chapter 12

Tazu stood up from the spot she'd been sitting in with her back leant against the hallway wall, waiting outside the bathroom, and frowned. Whoever this strange person was, it wasn't who she'd been expecting. It wasn't Amy; it wasn't even _female_, and it surely wasn't Lyle. This man's eyes were brown, they weren't even her friend's eyes anymore; just a stranger's. He might have been Amy's brother, though, she considered. He had her colouring; just a hint of something there, something Western European, maybe.

"Are you okay?" she asked now, and touched his face gently. No scars. "Can you hear me?"

"I can," he replied dully, sounding, but curiously not looking, very dejected. This wasn't what they'd planned. But at least the eyes were different. Amy and Lyle had had the same eyes, the same colour eyes perfectly. Even the shape had been more or less the same.

"I think it'll work," Tazu voiced, trying for a little optimism. She had trouble reading his emotions; for the moment, they just weren't there. She supposed they'd work themselves out, in time. It was just a little eerie to see, right there, in front of her. Someone she'd known for so long, suddenly rendered a stranger to her. To himself, even, she thought. She couldn't imagine that he was comfortable with the new complication to his plan. He didn't _look_ comfortable.

There, now, was that something, a little emotion seeping through?

She supposed not. It was merely her own imagination. He looked a little like a living, breathing robot, to be honest; _Or Jacob_, she thought distantly. Very Jacob. Unlike Sydney, who'd been the younger, gloomier version of the two, Jacob had been very good at being distant when he'd wanted to. Sydney, inevitably, had tried his hand at emulating his older twin brother, and had only come off as all the more gloomy and standoffish, as though he lived in his own little world where the sun never came out.

Tazu smiled. "It's not so bad. It's even sort of... cute."

He rolled his eyes - very creepy - looking suddenly... gloomy and putout. "I don't think it's cute. I think it's..."

"It is very cute!" she came back, enthusiastically. "Huggable cute!" She grinned. "Much like someone else I can think of, now that I do," she added, and the smile wiped off her face. Aw, shucks! She patted his arm awkwardly.

He made a face, and she widened her eyes. Wow! That was sort of... not cute.

"I think you're getting the hang of it," she told him cheerfully.

"Bollocks! It's awful. For one thing, it's far too Sydney!"

"Well, dear, he is your father," she tried, on a less enthused note.

He put a hand on his face and looked at the wall.

Not happy, then, she thought. No. No. Of course not. She pointed a finger at him. "Uh, don't you _dare_ say it's not ginger!"

"I wasn't intending on saying so!" he moped. He made a little whining noise, in the back of his throat. "It sounds ridiculous! _I_ sound ridiculous!"

"I think you sound..." No, best not to say that; no more Sydney comments for the evening. "It'll work wonders for the yuppy angle, don't you think?"

"No, I don't," he whinged, on the verge of tears. "And I don't like yuppies."

She laughed. "What are you talking about? Yuppy _Central_! _Ner!_" She stopped smiling so much and nodded. "That was then..." She smiled again. "Oh, you big galoot-!"

He stared seriously at the floor. (Personally, it reminded her of Bobby; always with the big eyes, that boy. "What do you mean?", and the big eyes. "That's marv'llous!", and, yes, _again_, with the big eyes.) "I'm going to my room!" he said (to the floor), and turned around and walked off. To his room, she very much imagined.

Damn!, if only he'd done away with the eye widening thing, she thought. It was much too Parker-on-an-alcoholic-bender, which, curiously, she couldn't entirely diss, because, more often than not, said bender was the only time Parker seemed to _have_ a sense of humour. Otherwise it was mean-girl mode, or else seduce-the-guy mode. There were very few people around which Parker actually allowed herself to be herself - or, arguably, to be human - and it was a very sad state of affairs, in Tazu's opinion. Shit yeah!, the girl needed to get out! And get away from the Centre! For a long, _long_ time! Forever wouldn't be too bad, either. Luckily, it looked like she was going to get that time. The day after tomorrow, she'd be leaving with Reagan. Where she'd go from there, well, who knew? She'd probably meet up with Jarod to discuss this and that, before going off her own way, with the kid.

Tazu sighed, and headed off down the hall. When she got to Lyle's room, she found him standing outside the door, doing nothing much.

"I'll have to find..."

"A new place to live. A new job. Won't get to keep your old stuff," she listed off. Oh, damn, did that include his books? Surely not! Those books were valuable. "You'll need to find somewhere with a basement! Everything you'd rather not let go, put it in the basement."

"Do you think I could be Zaiid?"

"You want to call yourself Zaiid?" she asked.

"It's not French," he returned, in its defence. And added, a little downheartedly, "And Zaida's a woman's name."

"You don't look very much like a Zaiid," she offered, trying to lend a little realism to things.

"But I like it!"

"Oh, I have no doubt that you do like it," she replied. She sighed. "All right, well... maybe if you combine it with something else."

"Zaiid Sasson."

"I was thinking more along the lines of Nathaniel or Zachariah. Something that can be shortened to something easily pronounceable to Western ears: Nathan or Nate or Zach. That isn't French, is it? Sasson?"

"Hebrew," he replied happily.

"And that's going to go down a treat," she said.

"I don't see why not."

Fighting down an exasperated sigh, it truly looked as though he didn't see why, she thought. Terribly smashing, wasn't it! In any case, it still sounded French to her. Not that it mattered, because it didn't. If he wanted to be Zaiid Sasson, then that's who he'd be.

"Zaiid Sasson St. Clair."

"Just couldn't resist, could you?"

"Absolutely not!"

No, of course not.

Secretly, she thought 'Zaiid' was off to a good start; he looked totally adorable when he smiled - she just wanted to _hug_ him! And she didn't mind his voice at all; it wasn't too pomp, in her opinion. So he thought it was too self-impressed head doctor; _she_ didn't.

He snapped his fingers. "Algeria!"

"You want to pretend to be Algerian, or French-Algerian?"

"Yes!"

"Can you do a French-Algerian accent?"

He smiled. It was a smile that said, _I don't know, but I'm going to find out!_

And at that moment, she smiled too, just happy to have her friend back, just happy to see him optimistic again.

Tomorrow, they found a new place (or some place to move everything), and got the documentation side of things rolling, and the day after that, it was show time. They couldn't afford to wait any longer because two days later, the Tower showed up. So, it was time now to make tracks.

Hopefully, everything would work out alright.

.

"Coffee? You have a job making coffee?" He was living in a caravan in a caravan park, drivin' around a van (in which he kept all of the important stuff he hadn't wanted to give up), and he had a job making coffee.

"Yes."

Well, at least he didn't sound down about it, she thought. A job making coffee was still a job, right? And it had the added bonus that it can't have had anything to do with the Centre, she thought. Yes, it was Washington (the Vampire State), but vampires weren't really real. As far as she knew, they weren't. And Parker and Reagan were away from the Centre, and had been for three weeks now, and Lyle/Zaiid was optimistic that they'd stay away.

Coffee. How charming!

Of course, Zaiid St. Clair didn't just make coffee. He was also a bit of a scientist. He still had to come up with a way to remove biomechs from people's brains. So, no pressure there, she thought.

She sat down on the seat beside him and closed her eyes. Just thinking about making coffee all day made her tired, and she wasn't even _alive_! It was abominable, frankly! Wasn't she supposed to be the tower of strength in this operation?

Um, no, she denied flatly, that was Emily, the Convergence partner. Where was she, anyway? Oh, right, he hadn't wanted to involve her, had he. Too bad, too, she thought, she'd have welcomed the distraction. Life was getting pretty boring, and would only be getting all the more boring; next she'd be sitting around at some café all day, then, at the end of the day, coming home to this very dull, very boring (very overstuffed) trailer, with absolutely no chance of anyone else to talk to but Mr. Scientist over here. Wow!, and he hadn't even invested in a TV! So what if he didn't watch it - she'd be watching it, wouldn't she? She couldn't very well nick around to other people's places to watch telly with them - that would just be... strange, she thought. Far too strange for her tastes.

Still, maybe there'd be some hot guys to perv on at this café, she thought. If no-one could see her, they couldn't very well snap at her not to stare, either. It would be great fun-

Sitting up straighter, she sighed heavily. Was he going to fall asleep at the table _every_ night? She glanced at the little alarm clock sitting on the sink. It was that time already? Jeez, she must have dozed off or something because suddenly it was eleven at night. Last time she'd checked the time it had been seven something. _Way to go, Science Girl_, she thought darkly, and folded her arms on the table, resting her head on her arms and staring at Zaiid. "Oi, St. Clair, you really asleep, or you just pretending, to be funny?"

He didn't say anything back so she assumed that meant he was really asleep.

She closed her eyes, too.

.

Emily frowned to herself, putting away her toothbrush. She still didn't get it. Why did they have to go this year? They hadn't gone for years and years. Every year, on her birthday (at Christmas, New Year's and Easter), Margaret send cards, but they hadn't gone visiting for years, since... what? Since she'd been 26, Emily thought. Yes, it had been _that_ long. Since 1996; since Jarod's escape.

In more recent years, they'd exchanged e-mails. As far as Emily knew, Faith was Margaret's childhood friend. At least, a friend from her school years... Fay was 74. She had children, both of whom were grown by now and had kids of their own. Her eldest, Lucas, was 39; his sister, Jennifer, 37. Lucas was married with two kids, Harriet (Etta) and Joan. Etta was eight, Joan four. Jen had one son, three-year-old Paul. She was between relationships, apparently. Fay's husband had been three years her junior, but he'd left her years ago. His name had been Steven or Nick or something. (Steven, that was right. Uncle Steven. Not that he was really, Emily's uncle.) They'd divorced the year Emily had turned 24, in 1993. "Never trust a Steve," Fay had told her, when they'd been alone in the kitchen, Emily helping with the lunch preparations. She'd felt a bit like laughing then, but she hadn't.

She closed the bathroom door after herself and walked slowly to her room. It wouldn't be so bad. It would be pretty much like popping 'round to a complete stranger's, but that would be okay. Nowadays, Luke and Jen had their own lives, successful jobs of their own; for all they'd remember of her, it would be of her as that annoying young woman who didn't talk for-veritably-ever and then, suddenly, out of the blue, came out with some really bizarre-o question that they were aure was an attack on their middle-class existence. The last time she'd seen them they'd been 23 and 21, and Fay had been 58. Luke and Jen had been in uni; Luke had changed degrees about three times; Jen was studying literature.

It was really for her mom, she told herself, sitting down on her bed. She could do this. She could do this for her mom.

She turned and glanced at the door, at the boy standing in her bedroom door. "Who are you?" she almost asked, but it was pretty obvious, looking in his eyes. Lyle's son, Reagan.

Mel was here!

She stood up quickly, grabbing a hair band from out of her drawer and tying her hair into a ponytail, then heading around her bed, for the door.

Bit late, but heck, she just didn't care.

"Hey there," she said, to the boy. "Follow me."

He was probably hungry. Kids were always hungry. She'd fix him a sandwich or something. "You hungry?" she asked, as they walked, her, in front, him, following; her, shooting a quick glance over her shoulder.

"No."

"Awww! What?" That wasn't right. "You sure?"

"Yes."

"You want something anyway? Just a little snack? An apple, or something?"

"No, thank you."

She shrugged. "That's cool."

Parker was standing in the kitchen, sipping a hot coffee, chatting with Jarod. "There you are," she said, when she saw Reagan.

"Here I am," he returned plainly.

Parker smiled and rolled her eyes. "You want to come visiting with Jarod?"

Reagan frowned. "I'll go if you're going," he said.

"That's great! It just so happens I am!" she replied.

He smiled, with some effort. His gaze strayed to the corner, tears worrying his eyes. He blinked. "I miss Blue Cove," he said, finally. "I miss the people I used to know."

Parker's eyes turned hard and closed. "I don't want to hear you mentioning that name from now on, Reagan," she said. "Do you understand?"

He bit his lip harder, staring intently at the spot of floor in the kitchen corner. "I understand," he replied evenly.

"I hope so," Parker merely replied, then she went back to her conversation with Jarod, as though nothing had happened.

Emily walked over to the twelve-year-old. "Are you okay?" she asked, in a low voice.

"I'm quite okay," he replied, unaffected.

"You miss your friends, huh?"

"I wish them the best in life. I'm starting anew. I'm starting a new life without them. The past is the past. I'll not bring it up again. I shan't disrespect this privilege I've been handed, a privilege not all of us can take. I'm the lucky one. I should be happy, from now on."

Emily's chest hurt. She didn't know what to do, she just knew she was hurt for him, hurt for this lonely child, hurt for her friend's cold words, words she could scarcely believe. Words that made too much sense. "A drink, then?"

"No. Thank you."

.

So, that was the end of the coffee-making job. The owner had got back from vacation and decided that he didn't want no-one by the name of Zaiid making coffee for his café, no frickin' Arab, no frickin' Muslim or Islamic or what-hey-ever.

Zaiid might have pointed out that he wasn't the religious type, but it didn't honestly matter, it didn't matter because this man was, so he refrained. The guy wouldn't have appreciated his saying so how hurt he was that religion had been wielded as it had for so many years, that something that should have inspired connection and unity between people had been used as a tool of segregation and control, as a tool of aggression. That was not the true message of spirituality. Spirituality was about harmony, about feeling a part of something, of feeling as though, no matter what, you had a place in the world, you had a family, had brothers and sisters, had a home. You had a world, a world you were a _part of_, a world you didn't _own_, but you were a part of. How could you own the world when it was a living thing and it wasn't right to say that any one thing owned another thing? Spirituality wasn't about hurting and killing and the blind need to make money, to amass possessions, to say, _"_Look at me! Aren't I big!_"_ And if anyone asked, "But are you a good person? Do you remember that you're a person, too? Can you still connect?" it wasn't about how fast you could lose your cool and snap, "What the **** are you on about, man? Get up outta my face!"

These days, he'd decided that he wouldn't start an argument if the person he was talking to didn't. He'd ignore the fact that they were religious, if they didn't start on shoving it on him, or anyone else. Or else he'd just have to point out how it was really the religious maniacs who started all of the biggest wars, who dragged everyone else into them along with them, who stood back and said - from both sides - "I _know_ I'm doing the right thing!", "I'm doing my god's work."

That was utter nonsense, he thought. If such a thing as God did exist, it would be everything, everywhere; it would not advocate violence against your own or destruction of "the environment". The energy of life, of all things, must have respected life, must not have thought it just to throw life away on a whim, on a petty disagreement, a misunderstanding, an impatient/angered/disappointed moment.

Perhaps he was wrong, but that was what he believed. But he would never use that belief to justify hurting another living being. If he hurt someone, it was not because _everyone_ did it - it was because _he_'d done it, _he_ had. Yes, society could be like that, could hurt you and let you down, could push you around and to the edge. Yes, people could be like that. But what were you like? Were you like that, too? Or were you different? Did you wish things were different, wish you could make a difference, instead of just follow the norm, go with the flow? Didn't you know, you could?

That's what he'd be doing. He wouldn't be involving himself in their shit anymore. Whenever you did that, you got dragged in and you had no choice (to get through to them) but to play their silly, little games. No thank you, but he'd pass. He was too old for those games; should have known better. Didn't want it anymore. Didn't want to keep feeling let down, keep letting himself down. So he'd be staying out of their games. No thank you.

Am I an asshole? Maybe so. Am I cold and unfeeling? Maybe you think so. Do I care? Yes, but I try not to get caught up in that crap. In senselessness and overreaction. Am I making a difference? Maybe not, maybe not such a big difference, but if I'm to be a part of it anyway, if I'm to be a part of it just because I'm alive, I live here, I'm not rich (I can't go where I want), then I'll be a small part of it, I'll not be an aggressive part of it, I won't incite others. I'll live my life, I won't interfere in others where I'm not asked to, where I'm not wanted. And if you ask me to hurt someone else, I'm sorry (actually, I'm not), but I'm gon' have to reject you, I'm going to have to turn you down. That's not me.

No more job. Gotta look for a new job. Hope something comes up soon, I rather like having a place to sleep, having food to eat. Don't you like the same thing too?

"I am taking myself out of the Manipulation Machine."

Tazu laughed. "The what?"

"Unemployed, no job. No 'company line'."

"Ouch! What did you do?"

"Wrong name."

"Hey? There's no such thing."

"You know that, I know that. Mr. I'm-the-Boss doesn't."

"You tell him?"

"Didn't want to start a fight."

"You didn't want to stick up for your brothers and sisters?"

"Stick up for themselves, if they want to. Sticking up for yourself don't mean starting a fight, Tahz. This guy, lookin' for a fight for sure. No thank you, love. I'm out. I start a fight with this guy, he gets in a mood, takes it home with him, takes it out on his family. Domestic violence is bullshit. I won't participate in that. Refuse. Won't start a fight with someone like that, some intolerant muck. He's a fool, but I won't be his fool."

.

She remembered that he'd cried, that first night. He'd woken up in the middle of the night and just started crying. He hated what he'd had to do, that he'd had to destroy Amy. Even though he knew they were the same person, he'd have preferred they weren't. He never wanted someone as good as Amy to be mixed up with him, with someone like him, and then he'd gone and erased her, rewritten over her.

"No," Tazu had told him. "She was a part of you, but you're also a part of her. She isn't gone, she's just a part of you now." She'd try to be comforting, had held his hand. She'd known him for a long time, had been his friend for a long time, and she didn't really know why he was so confused, but she knew that he was. How could she say, honestly, that she wouldn't have felt the same way in his situation. And just saying that his feelings were crappy or "unmanly" or without reason wouldn't make them any less real, so she'd just held his hand.

He did that sometimes, got sad. What was wrong with that? Everyone got sad sometime. That he got sad more so than some other people, she didn't worry about. He just needed someone around to let him know it was going to be okay, more or less; he just needed a friend. She hadn't been mad at him for it.

And she wasn't now, either.

It was just the shower block, and, yes, they did have hot water, but it wasn't just about the shower block, or the hot water, or losing his job. He wasn't sad because of any of those things; he was sad because of all the people without jobs, without homes, without food or hot water or the means to keep their family safe, warm, fed, clothed. Because he couldn't do anything to help those people, and that wasn't fair. Because there were people who could, but didn't; didn't because without that gap, without those poor people, there would be no filthy rich people, either. But what was all that money (all those possessions) worth, when the world you lived in was going to ruin, when all around you, everyone you met, was going short, going without water or food or shelter? How could you call that living? And if you ignored those people, what were you then? Were you even a person yourself? Of course you were (you'd been born that way), but should you have been able to proudly say, "Yes, I am"? To say, that because you lived the way you did, had done the things you'd done, you truly knew what it was to be a human being, and all of those lower than you, what were they but common, but animals (as though, though you eat meat, you do not respect the animals that have to die to become your dinner; the soldiers who have to fight against you, for you to have an enemy, for you to have your grand victory)!

Sometimes, Tazu thought, you had to be fearless, you had to be the best human beings could be, and you had to ignore what anyone else said when they tried to change your mind, when they tried to discourage you. Someone like that, that would be who she'd fall in love with, she thought. Quite without reason, she could fall in love with someone like that. Not that they would fall in love with her back, not that they'd ever speak, but it didn't matter, did it; it didn't matter if they'd inspired her to be a better person, too.

Right now, she knelt in the shower with her friend - he was getting water all over his clothes - and talked to him quietly. It was going to be alright, it really was. If people had love, they could get through almost anything. People were tough. Good or bad, right or wrong, or something in between, people were always still that, always still tough. And love did two things, it made you softer, and it made you tougher; in different ways, it made you both. All of those people, they wanted to get by, they did, and they would. Maybe not all of them, but many of them. It was going to be okay, okay?

What else could she say? "Let's go out there now and save the world!" But would the world understand, did the world know that it needed saving, needed to save itself, because there was no-one else who could save you but you?

She understood perfectly, the way he felt: I'm one of them, but I can't do anything; it doesn't seem as though anything I do helps anyone else. And even if she hadn't known firsthand what that felt like, even if she hadn't felt the same thing herself a dozen, a hundred, a thousand times over, she'd still have said, okay, I'm here, because it was the right thing to do. People needed support, they were not a solitary animal; they needed friends, love, understanding. She gave it, and she got it back. He was her friend, too, she wasn't just his.

He'd been her friend before she'd even known that he was.

.

Faith had moved, a few years ago, and now lived in Washington, where it wasn't always cloudy or pouring down buckets. Margaret and Charles had decided to go in the same car; they'd taken de Berg with them, in the truck, so Emily was riding in the SUV with Jarod, Ethan, Mo, Parker and Reagan. Jarod, who was driving, sat up the front with Parker. Emily sat down the back, reading a magazine. When she'd read as much as she could - she felt slightly ill - she offered the magazine to someone else. Ethan and Mo were talking about cars. "Would you like to read something?" she asked Reagan.

"No, thank you," he replied.

She wondered if he knew it was okay to say _thanks_ instead of _thank you_.

Thankfully, they stopped in the next town, and they were able to get out of the car, stretch their legs, get some air, go to the toilet - Did they have hot water? Soap? - get something to drink. They'd stopped at a service station/diner. (They'd definitely have hot water, right? Soap, for sure.) Emily went for a walk around the gravel parking lot, to stretch her legs, and work off some of the ill feeling. Her legs felt weird; walking felt better. The sound of the gravel crunching underfoot made her feel better, alive again; it wasn't like the continuous drone of the engine. She stopped and did a couple of star jumps, just to hear the gravel crunch, just to feel her legs again, feel the air. Realising that she probably looked pretty silly, she glanced around her. Gladly, no-one was gawping at her with weird looks on their faces; no-one was gawping at her at all. She spied a van and got closer to read the stickers on its back window. It had a few. They looked pretty wordy. The first one was kinda funny:

MAKING WAR IS LIKE MAKING LOVE (AND DANCING THE TANGO) - IT TAKES TWO

Wasn't that so true! she thought. Underneath this, there was an accompanying sticker that said: PUT YOUR PASSION INTO SOMETHING ENJOYABLE - MAKE LOVE, NOT WAR (OR LEARN TO DANCE!)

WHEN YOU EAT FOODS GROWN WITH SUPER PHOSPHATE, YOU'RE ALSO EATING CADMIUM. CADMIUM IS HARMFUL TO HUMAN BEINGS, BUT IT'S IN A LOT OF THE STUFF WE USE EVERYDAY. PLASTICS, FOR INSTANCE. SAY 'NO' TO ELECTRIC KETTLES AND GROW YOUR OWN VEGETABLES. COMMUNITY GARDENS ARE _COOL_!

JUST TO LET YOU KNOW: WE DON'T WANT FLUORIDE IN OUR WATER! WE DON'T WANT CHLORINE, EITHER! WATER SHOULD BE CLEAN, NOT FULL OF HARMFUL CHEMICALS. DON'T CALL IT 'CLEAN' WHEN _CLEARLY_, IT'S NOT! WE DON'T APPROVE OF YOUR MONEY-MAKING SCHEMES, SO JUST SO YOU KNOW THAT MONEY YOU'RE HOARDING - WE KNOW IT'S DIRTY MONEY!

ALCOHOL - ENJOY IT, DON'T ABUSE IT! YOU HAVE THE POWER: CHOOSE GOOD TIMES, NOT BAD!

SMILE - NOBODY'S WATCHING

IF UNFAIRNESS MAKES YOU ANGRY & HURTS YOU, DON'T PASS IT ON! DOMESTIC VIOLENCE SHOULD _NOT_ BE LIKE A GAME OF PASS-THE-PARCEL - IT'S NOT _FUN_! IF YOU'RE ANGRY OR SOMEONE'S HURT YOU - DON'T PLAY INTO THE GAME, DON'T PICK UP THE PARCEL

YOU ARE VALUABLE. YOU ARE LOVED. YOU ARE ALIVE. (DIDN'T YOU KNOW?)

She smiled and walked off, back to the diner. Inside, she took a seat at the table with Parker and Ethan. Mo and Reagan were with Jarod, at the counter.

"You are valuable."

Ethan frowned at her, shifting his gaze from the large window. "What?"

"You are loved."

He gave her a strange look.

"You are alive." She smiled. "Didn't you know?"

"Pff!" Parker shot her a look. "Of course we knew!" She said _we_, as though Emily had been talking to the both of them. It was nice of her, Emily thought.

"I read it on a sticker outside," she shared.

"Was there a sticker that said 'Bumper stickers distract you - Distracted drivers die! What the bleep are you starin' at, dead meat?'"

"No. Not that I saw."

"Pity," Parker replied. "It's true."

Jarod came over to the table; he brought Mo and Reagan with him, along with Charles, Margaret and de Berg.

"Hey, hey!" de Berg said with enthusiastic gusto, with no particular reason, and clapped Mo on the arm. She sat down in a chair beside Ethan and grinned at him.

"Choose!" Parker snapped seriously. "Get that stupid grin outta my brother's face or get out!"

De Berg instantly stopped smiling. She looked disturbed and shocked; more shocked than disturbed. What had she done wrong exactly? Had she done anything wrong? Was smiling at someone a crime now?

Jarod laughed amiably and patted Parker's shoulder. She shot him a death glare and made to swipe his hand off her shoulder; thankfully, he quickly withdrew it, still smiling with good humour.

"It's not Halloween," he told her quietly. "Put the teeth away, Parker."

She snorted but didn't offer de Berg an apology.

Sandi Thom's _I Wish I Was a Punk Rocker With Flowers in My Hair_ played over the radio and Emily sung along, clapping a hand on her leg in time with the music.

Parker rolled her eyes, but couldn't help a smile.

Charles took a chair from another table so they'd have nine chairs, and everyone found a seat to sit down. Jarod and Charles talked about how long it would be, how far they still had to go; Margaret joined in their conversation, and de Berg just watched them chatting away. Parker checked her cell phone for messages, unnecessarily - it was a new number - and Ethan and Mo laughed about an expensive car outside. Reagan hummed _The Pink & The Lily_, and Emily, with nothing better to do, sung the words she could remember. Parker even put her cell phone away to shoot her a _There she goes again!_ look.

Jarod tossed his chin at her, shook his head. _Don't draw attention, hey._

Emily grinned in exasperation and smiled at Reagan. "You're good," she told him. "Good at remembering the tunes."

He said nothing, but looked away from her.

She had a feeling he was thinking about the friends he'd had to leave. She hummed _Saturday Night_ brightly, offering him a smile.

She'd be the mom with the flowers in her hair, he thought; the mom who'd love Dad anyway, even if he drank all the money away and yelled until she couldn't hear the tune she hummed so Baby wouldn't grow up thinking screaming was the only language people spoke. She wasn't who she thought; she was a lover, not a fighter. She fought by loving, not by hurting. She was strong inside, she just didn't know it. But she wasn't a hurter, so she'd have to be careful who she fell in love with. If she fell in love with the wrong sort she'd hang on, hoping every day that her love broke through, that it was the thing that made the difference, that changed someone's life; she'd keep on thinking, _It changed my life, baby. It changed _my_ life. _You_ changed my life, you touched more than just my heart. You touched my soul, too. I'm reaching for you, honey; please let me touch you, let me feel your heart beating, let me know we _have_ something._

He bit his lip. Gosh, he felt like crying now. He was turning into his dad, he thought. Next thing he knew, he'd be able to switch it on and off at will: happy/bawling, happy/bawling. It would become like routine; he'd start to wonder if he was a machine, if he even _had_ real feelings. He didn't want to be like that; he wanted to believe he was _real_. He wanted to _be_ real!

_Don't think about her_, he told himself. _Don't think about Mom. Think about her when you're happy, not when you're sad. She doesn't want that. She lived, she smiled, she laughed. And then she died, like we all die, in the end. But she lived! First, she lived! She lived, like we all do; she made someone else smile, she made someone else laugh; her life wasn't a joke. It was real. She is real! And she doesn't want you to cry because she's gone. Everybody goes, in the end. And then someone else comes along and it's okay; it's okay because the world is good again, because your heart's happy again. But it was always good; you just couldn't feel it, you just forgot. Nothing lasts forever, but this feeling, this happiness, it lives as close to forever as forever gets. It's real!_

He looked at the poster of Marilyn Munroe on the wall. He couldn't tell if she was happy or not. Happiness could be sad, too, and sadness could be happy. That was the happy sadness. It was a million different things at once; it was happy and it was sad. Marilyn did happy sadness well, he thought. If you looked close enough, you could just see it there in her eyes, in that little glimmer when the light caught her eye. He smiled at her. _It's gonna be alright_, he thought. _It's really gonna be alright._ Of course, he knew she'd died, but everyone died. It didn't mean death was scary or bad. Death, itself, was just a thing that happened. But when someone took it upon themselves to end someone else's life, that was the bad thing.

"Do you know who that is?" Charles asked him. Charles hadn't spoken to him before. He looked away from Marilyn and looked at Charles. "That's Marilyn Munroe," Charles added.

"She looks sad."

"I suppose she was," Charles replied.

Charles was thinking of how she'd died, thinking of Edie, and how she'd died too. "Have you seen many of her films?" Reagan asked.

"Ah, you've heard of her." He frowned thoughtfully. "Over the years, I suppose I must have seen a couple. How about you?"

"No. But I have heard of her. She sung _Happy Birthday_ for the President, John. He died, too."

"Kennedy." Charles nodded.

"Ronald Reagan was an actor. Then he became the President."

"You're named after him?"

Before he could think about it, Reagan said, "No. Big brother gave me my name. Before I was born, Daddy was thinking of naming me after his father, Jonathan. But when he saw me, he decided I couldn't be Jonathan. I didn't look like a Jonathan. Big brother named me Reagan because it means _little king_, and because it's Irish, like his mother, Catherine."

Charles frowned. "It's not Raygen? It's Reegen, did you say?"

Reagan nodded. "Yes. That's how big brother said it."

"Jonathan!" Parker snapped. She scowled, and corrected herself quickly, "Reagan!" She said it Reegen, too.

"Have you watched many Marilyn Munroe films?" he asked her.

She rolled her eyes. "Everybody doesn't need to know our business. Remember that!"

"I'm not 'everybody', Miss Parker," Charles interrupted.

Parker's eyes darkened and she shot Jarod a death glare.

"What?" he asked.

She threw Charles a dirty look. He's the culprit!

Jarod sighed. "Dad, it's cool. He's just a kid."

"We were talking," Reagan said. "Your father wasn't bothering me. We were just talking."

"Glad to hear it," Jarod replied.

"Lay off him!" Parker scowled. "You!" she hissed to Reagan. "You don't say anything more! You don't have to answer his questions!"

"We're just talking, big sister," Reagan replied, with a frown. Couldn't he talk to people now? Well, that wasn't fair, and yes he could.

Parker got up from her chair. "You wanna pull some more of that smart attitude on me, young man!"

He dropped his gaze to the tabletop. "No, big sister."

"That's right!" she scowled, and sat back down.

Jarod gave her a look. Did she have to be so hard on the kid? She was being a real bitch. Couldn't she see that? "Are you trying to alienate him?" he asked seriously.

"Fuck off!"

"Excuse me?" He frowned. They were in public!

"Fuck you!"

"Don't do that," he told her quietly. "Things are okay right now. The world doesn't have to be ending everyday, Parker. You're still alive, even when it's not." He reached over and picked up her hand, taking it in his. When she yanked it away, he just grabbed it again. "You see. You're alive. You feel that. Reagan feels it when you're short with him, too. Just like you felt it when your Dad was the same way with you."

She scowled at him filthily. "Don't turn that Syd shit on me!"

"It's not shit, Parker. I want you to understand that. And keep on understanding it."

She laughed falsely. "Let go of my hand, pervert!"

"I'm _holding_ your hand, Parker. That's it. Who's the pervert in this situation? You, or I? You're the one reading inappropriate connotations into something fairly bloody normal, to be honest."

She yanked her hand back off him. "Pervert!" she hissed, but there was an edge of a smile in her voice.

Jarod smiled. When he looked at her again, he put the smile away. "Don't be so hard on the kid, all's I'm saying, yeah?"

She blinked stupidly, shaking her head. "Don't fuckin' say _yeah_ all the time. My lunatic _fake_ brother used to do that. It kinda makes me wanna _puke_!"

He held his hands up. "Okay. I'll try to remember that. Happy?"

"Far from," she scathed, and grabbed for her coffee.

"Come on, Parker. You understand what I'm saying."

"I'm not an idiot!" she snarled.

"I- _I_ know that. Your intelligence isn't what's in question here, Parker."

She put her cup down with a thud. "Yeah, moron? Then what is? What _exactly_ are you accusing me of?"

"Nothing."

"Ooo! Did I hurt your itty-bitty feerwings?" she joked sarcastically.

"Not at all."

"Liar!"

"Not at all," he returned pleasantly.

"I don't trust your dad," she snapped. "Happy? Moron!"

He sighed, closing his eyes, for a moment. "Please stop calling me that, Parker. I don't call you names, so I don't see why you should call me them."

"Because I can!" she replied; easy as that!

"You're not Lyle," he reminded her.

That one got him a slap, though, for some reason, Parker looked more like the one who'd been slapped. "Mention that poser freak again and you're dead!" she hissed in a deadly voice.

"Terrorise the kid again and you're on," he returned, without a trace of feeling threaten at her words.

She grinned suddenly, with menace.

"Ow!"

Jarod got an _Oh, what?_ look and looked over at Emily.

"Sorry," she apologised. "I stubbed my toe."

He shook his head. "On _what_?"

She frowned and pretended to ignore him. A moment later, she got up. Yes, she'd deliberately stubbed her toe on the chair leg; no, she wasn't faking that it hurt, it _really_ hurt. Yes, she was sick of Parker's crappy mood. "I'm getting chips, if anyone wants anything," she said.

De Berg stood up quickly.

Emily looked at Ethan and Mo. "No," Mo said, shaking his head.

"Chips sound good," Ethan replied.

"Nothing for me, sweetheart," Charles put in, glancing pointedly at Reagan.

"No thank you," Reagan told her.

"Brandy!" Parker scathed.

Emily put a hand on her hip, shooting Parker a _Get real! This is a diner, missy!_ look. "Mom, anything?"

"Apple pie wouldn't be bad," Margaret answered, drawing a scowl from Jarod.

Emily glanced at him. Did _he_ want anything?

"Oh, _yeah_, I'd like my brother back - alive!"

Parker snorted.

"Can I get you fries with that today, sir?" Emily asked sarcastically, in mock sweet tones. She rolled her eyes and turned on her heel, walking away.

De Berg hurried after her. "Soft serve," she said. "I'll have a soft serve cone."

"With chocolate on top?"

"Ah, no. With sprinkles, if they have."

"Sprinkles. Got it." Emily forced a smile onto her face.

"Thanks," de Berg said. She turned away slowly and walked back to the table. When Emily didn't call her back she supposed that meant it was okay for her to leave.

.

"What can I get you, ma'am?"

"You got brandy at all?"

"No, ma'am, I'm sorry. We don't."

She sighed. "Pity. In that case, I'll have two large bowls of chips, salt's fine, just not too much; a slice of apple pie, it doesn't need to be heated, don't bother with the cream, and three soft serve cones, one with those colourful sprinkles on top, the other two just... as they are." She frowned at his name tag. _Zaiid. Okay._ "That's all," she added. Yeah, he did have an accent. Didn't know what it was, though. He got English though, didn't he? Seemed to, she thought.

She sighed, leaning on the counter, waiting for the dude to get back with her order. He had to be about her age, right. So how come he was working at some place like this? Was he the owner? Can't have been, she thought. Would people buy stuff from a place run by someone with a name like that? In a town like this? Not that she had anything against Arabic people - he didn't look Arabic, to be honest - she just hadn't met many Arabic people, and she knew other people could get their heckles up very quickly about stuff like that, about Arabic people, like they thought they were all maniacs (Arabic people probably thought all Americans were maniacs; that seemed to be the way it worked: _it takes two_. If one did, then the other promptly followed suit).

Zaiid returned and offered her a smile. "I can bring it out to you when it's ready, if you like," he told her.

She blew a breath out, shook her head. "Nah, that's okay. I can wait."

"Okay."

She frowned. "Wh-where are you from?"

"Algeria."

She narrowed her eyes, thinking about that. Africa. "Oh. Okay. Do you miss A-Algeria?"

"Not right now."

She lifted her chin and smiled. "Ah." _Not right now._ Wasn't really an answer, was it? "I- I miss the idea of home. I mean, we moved around a lot when I was growing up. My folks and I. I- I always used to long for a place to call my own." She shook her head. "It's so silly, I know."

"No. It's not silly. It's not silly at all. A lot of people must feel that way."

"But you don't?"

"I'm still looking for home. For the place I'd feel most comfortable settling down."

"You've travelled quite a bit, then?"

"I've been places."

"To England?"

"Yes. To England. I have."

She winced suddenly. "Sorry! Am I keeping you from something?"

"Yep." He smiled. "My fault, not yours. Too easily distracted. I should be back shortly."

_Talks funny_, she thought. _What did he mean by that? 'Too easily distracted'?_ She leant over the counter. "Do you work here alone?" she called out loudly.

"No. No. I don't." He returned with the chips and the apple pie, on a tray.

"Oh great," she said, taking the tray when he placed it down at the counter. "You'll bring the ice-creams over!" she said, before he could. "Got it!" She walked off, back to the table.

"Mom." She passed Margaret her apple pie.

"What's the matter with that Arab guy? He can't come out here himself? He gets you to do it, instead? Or that girl who came out before?"

"Mom!" Emily whispered.

"Oh, I'll give you 'Mom'!" Margaret replied unapologetically, shooting her a remonstrative look that clearly said, _Don't back down. I don't care if he's got women issues, this is America. Nobody asked him to come here; if he wanted to, he can leave any time he wants. Nobody's forcing him to stay. Don't let him treat you like a piece of filth under his boot. He's gonna get like that, he can take a hike off someplace high._

She made a face at the apple pie then frowned at the chips.

"Mom, it's not poisoned," Emily told her quietly, with wide eyes. Jeez, Margaret was embarrassing her! If Zaiid came over now, she'd totally blush. Then she'd be even more humiliated.

She hurried back to the counter, eager to avoid any more confrontations. "Thank you," she said when he came to the counter with the ice-creams, in one of those cardboard holder things.

"I could have brought them over," he said again.

"No. No! Been driving a while. Everyone's a bit cranky. I wouldn't want it spreading. Thank you." She smiled and turned about, heading back to the table.

"He doesn't have anything against women, Mom," she said, back at the table, "I just felt like being helpful."

"Of course," Margaret replied knowingly.

Emily rolled her eyes. "Mom, you're totally embarrassing me!"

"You're not a child, Emily," Margaret told her. "Adults don't stand for that nonsense, and neither should you. You're the one embarrassing _me_."

Emily laughed and sat down quickly.

"Who else is having an ice-cream?" de Berg asked her, confused.

"Jarod and Reagan."

"No I'm not," Jarod replied.

"I got it for you, so you are now."

"I didn't ask for it," he retaliated.

"Emily, you have it. Don't try to force things on your brother that he clearly doesn't want."

Emily laughed fakely. "Reagan, would you like an ice-cream?"

Reagan glanced at the ice-cream and nodded, after some thought. "Yes thank you," he said.

She walked around the table and passed him his ice-cream.

"You should have got sprinkles," de Berg told him, very little kid.

"No thank you," he merely replied.

She shrugged.

When Emily glanced at Jarod again, Margaret said, "You have it, Em! Thank you."

Emily shook her head and grabbed the ice-cream. Ridiculous! She'd only been trying to do something nice for Jarod and he couldn't even accept her offering. How crappy was that? It made her feel like an idiot.

She rolled her eyes and sat down to eat her ice-cream.

"Yo, Sayeed, aren't you supposed to be... like, doing something out back?" a boy asked, at the counter. "Where's Lista? E-evangelista? Where is she?"

"She's taking a break."

"Huh? How come?"

"I imagine, because it is time for her to take a break."

The boy laughed. "Look, dude, don't get smart with me, okay. I don't care if you're someone's dad or whatever, okay, cos _my dad_'s the boss, and he'll fire your ass if I tell him to! We square, man?"

"I understand."

The boy shook his head. "Damn it!" He turned and threw a look in the direction of one of the side exits, then glanced back around at Zaiid. "Go!" He waved a hand. "Do something! And don't talk to the customers, okay, cos your lot scare them!"

"My lot?" Zaiid asked.

"Arabs, man! Arabs! Terrorists!"

"I don't know where you've got such fanciful ideas from, young man, but I am neither an Arab nor are all Arab people terrorists. I am, however, offended that you should think such a thing, let alone that you'd reiterate this belief out loud in front of someone else who may be listening to what you're saying. It doesn't do you any good, I can say. In fact, it's rather narrow-minded of you," he held up a hand so the boy would interrupt, "and that, I did not expect. Now, tell me, not all Americans are warmongers, are they?"

The boy scoffed. "You're insane, man!"

"It's simply not the truth," Zaiid went on. "So why should all Arabs be terrorists? Hmm? Do think, before you just swallow blindly what the media would like you to swallow. It's all a part of their game, don't you see? That is what the media does. They sway the public opinion. This way, or that way. Whichever way they are told to. You didn't think you could believe everything they said, did you? Or - oh, no - that they would _never_ deliberately highlight one goings on to detract attention from another, or perhaps to get the public up in arms about something? No, no. You mustn't be so narrow-minded. You're young. But not so young as to be excused for your lack of interest in the way things work, or from deliberate ignorance. You people, you young people, you are the future, and you have to start thinking about the future. You can't live in yesterday, cruising along on Easy Street thinking everything's always going to be fine, fine, just fine! It is not all going to be fine. In fact, if people like you, the young people of today, do not start taking an interest, do not start seeing the things that are wrong, and how to correct them, how to start to _try_, at least, this world is only going _to get worse_! Hmm? Try to see things from a different angle; try to think, twenty, thirty years down the track, what's life going to be like for people in this country, for people on this planet? Does that- does that make any kind of strange logic to you, at all?"

"Are you on pills, dude? Cos you're insane! You're fuckin', fuckin' off the beam, man! Right off the beam! I am definitely gonna be tellin' my dad about this, and he's definitely gonna wanna talk to you, later!"

"Don't be a sore thumb, Drake," Evangelista replied, flipping back her fringe with a puff of her breath and tying her hair back up into a high ponytail. "I get to take breaks, Daddy's boy!"

"What the fuck did you just call me?"

"I think I called you Daddy's boy," she drawled. "What's the matter, Drake, having trouble hearing me?" She pointed a finger at him accusingly. "And don't you go flippin' your lid on us again, _Drake_, or else I might just go and flip somethin' o' mine on your precious Daddy-o! Shit, I dunno, like a sexual harassment charge - against _you_!"

Drake choked. "You fucking little bitch!" he hissed.

Evangelista glanced at Zaiid. "Boy does he have a mouth on him. All jokes aside, fun and games over, I think it's time to get back to work. What do you think, Zaiid?"

"I think you're right, miss."

Evangelista shot Drake a sweet smile. "Get the Hell off my back, jerk! I'm here to work, not sprout my mouth off about shit I don't know! I suggest you do the same!"

"You are so fired, bitch!" he snapped angrily. "Both of you!"

"Sure, Drake, sure." She shook her head and walked away to check something.

"Dude, you are so fired!" Drake told Zaiid. "You and that crazy fuckin' chick!"

"I think that decision is up to your father, Drake. Don't you? And I think he may just see it differently, I'm afraid. After all, Evangelista is a sweet girl. I don't think I've met anyone - anyone in the whole town - who'd be willing to accept you talking to her the way you have been for the past few minutes. To be honest, I don't think they'd be very happy to hear you say those things, at all. I think they'd be quite disappointed in you, actually. So, if you still want to make your suggestion to your father that he let us go, that is fine, by all means, you are entitled to your own opinion, just be sure you're ready to explain yourself, and be sure, that when we give our side of the story, not to back down, hmm. That wouldn't look very good for you, would it? I don't think so."

Silently fuming, Drake shoved down any further recriminations he might have had and glared daggers at the older man. Then he laughed, an idea forming in his mind. "You freak! You fuckin' paedo! I get it now! You've got designs on the bitch!"

"The bitch can hear you, jerk, and she has one thing to say," Evangelista snapped, appearing behind Zaiid and taking her place at the counter, once more. "I'm _eighteen_, _nimwad_!"

"Must we continue this pointless aggression?" Zaiid asked. "It's beginning to put me very, very ill at ease."

"Ill as in tightness in your chest and tingling in the end of your fingers ill?" Evangelista quizzed.

"No."

"Hunky-dory, hon. Hunky-dory. You don't mess around with that crap because real people die from heart attacks - everyday! When you start to feel funny, you gotta get help right away. Funny, not quite right. You know. Right away."

Drake scowled. "Don't bother, man," he said. "You'd be better off dead. You're insane. The world would be a better place without freaks like you. Sexual predators!"

"Go shove it up your craw, you freak!" Evangelista scowled. "I see those girls you drool over at school! They must be what, fifteen, sixteen? _You_ predator! You fiend!"

"I'm the fiend!" He laughed. "You freak! You, you fucking _grandfather_ molester!"

"Alright!"

Drake jumped, then stared at Zaiid. Evangelista just grinned. "What the fuck!" Drake scowled. "Did I ask you your opinion, old man?"

"Yo, Drakey baby, I think that's your grandmother," Evangelista drawled.

Drake immediately wheeled around, a look of horror plastered to his face. "You fucking slut!" he hissed, turning back around. There was no-one there!

She nodded. "Terrible. Terrible. The... glut. Really... messes up the prices of things. But it's the farmers I'm really feeling for right now, you know, cos they're just... They already get paid a pittance, but this glut's really gonna... do them in. They- they'll be getting peanuts now, for sure. The poor buggers."

Drake started to laugh. Nooo, he wasn't falling for that again! No way!

"Is there anything we can help you with, son?" Zaiid asked, stepping closer to the counter.

"You- you were here first," Reagan said, to Drake. "You can go first."

"He works here, babe," Evangelista told him. "What would you like?"

"A black coffee, please. It's for the lady over there; it's not for me."

"Okay. Okay, I believe you. Sugar?"

"Three, thank you."

"That's okay, hon. Anything else we can do for you today?"

"No thank you." He glanced at Drake again, then frowned. "Oh, I think your phone's about to run out of battery," he said disappointedly.

The older boy made a face and grabbed his phone from his pocket, glaring down at it. No way in Hell! But the kid was right, the lights had come on. His friend trying to call again, no doubt. Which was exactly why he'd muted the Goddamn phone in the first place. He scowled down at the caller ID. What the fuck, dude? His _mom_?

He pressed the Answer Call button and turned away from the counter. "Yeah, Mom? Shit, really? You should- I still think you should call the- Okay. Okay, I'll be there. Hang on." He hung up and stashed his phone back in his pocket. He whipped back around, "Later, fr-" He'd been about to say _freaks_, but quickly shut up. Ah, not in front of the customers. He laughed, and rushed out the door.

"Whatever!" Evangelista huffed, smiling at Reagan.

"His mom has to go to the hospital," Reagan relayed.

She frowned. "Really? How come?"

"She's having a baby."

"Are you a friend of the family?"

He shook his head. "I heard her say so, on the phone."

Evangelista hissed. "Your ears are _good_, I gotta give it to ya!" She grinned. "I didn't hear nothin'!" she whispered, as an afterthought, leaning closer, then straightened up. "I can take it," she told Zaiid, and sighed, when he glanced at the door. Customers. Dang diddly doh! She nodded - he could go ahead - and told Reagan brightly, "You have a nice day now, young man, and you just look after those ears!"

He smiled at her and followed Zaiid back to the table.

Emily looked away, to the window. Wow! They were in for it now. Margaret was going to go right off her beam at the poor guy. Joy of joys!

To her surprise, Margaret remained civil, sounding just a bit surprised, "Have we met?"

"I shouldn't think so, madam," Zaiid told her. "No."

Parker gave him a funny look, then peered at his name tag. She grinned. "You're not Canadian, are you? _You're not trying to impersonate an actual Frenchie, are you?_" she added, in Canadian French. "_How desperately amusing! Oh yes! My goodness! Very funny joke to play on dim-witted Americans, yes._"

"I'm sorry?" he asked, in English.

"No speaka the French, pal?"

"_I speak French, yes_," he replied, in perfect French.

"Frenchies!" she scowled.

"I'm from Algiers, actually. I did attend university in France, however, and my father was French, himself."

"Boy, oh boy, that's interesting! What's with the name, then?"

"There's nothing 'up' with my name, madam."

She rolled her eyes. "Did you pass university, _Jorge_?" she asked, with a French accent.

"Is that really any of your business, madam?"

"_Madam_ is interested to know!" she snapped.

"Yes, I did."

"And yet, you're working in a-" she snorted in disbelief and amusement, "- _roadhouse_!"

"It is a job, madam."

She laughed. "You actually mean to say you're _not_ the owner!" she scoffed.

"Certainly not, madam. The owner isn't in today."

She sighed. "It's a real problem these days, isn't it. Unemployment. And it's not just in this country, in the good old U S of A, it's worldwide. A real problem."

"It is."

She winked at him, gesturing as if shooting a gun with her hand. "_Now_ we're on the same page, Jorge! Although, I gotta say, you seriously let a kid order coffee?"

"I seriously did. He explained for whom it was intended and my colleague and I happened to believe him. And, as you already know, he wasn't trying to, as they say, pull the wool over our eyes. He's a trustworthy boy."

"Trustworthy, munchkin," Parker said to Reagan. "Did you hear that? A strange man called you _trustworthy_. If you can pull that with a complete stranger, I expect you to treat me the same way you treated him. With absolute honesty and integrity of intention. That means, no making up tall tales or little white lies. Whatsoever!"

"Have I lied to you recently, sister?"

"I wouldn't know, now would I, because that's the whole point of a lie, to make someone _believe_ something that's not true. Even if you had lied to me, I'd still believe that what you said was the complete and utter truth."

"I'm not my father, who feels - or otherwise felt - the need to lie every other breath, quite as though it was an insidious affliction he'd contracted as a small child, in an obvious state of uncharacteristic ailment, and had never been quite able to shake," Reagan replied succinctly.

Taken aback, momentarily, she recovered to reply, "When you're right, you're right. One can't argue with that logic, my boy. Your father was, what some politely like to term, a compulsive liar. I, in all politeness, of course, would prefer to term him a _fucking bastard_! Which, given that I - we - still don't know who our father is with certainty, isn't so far off the mark, as you can see. So, I don't want you turning out like your father, boy!"

Reagan glanced at Emily, then back to Parker. "Redheads don't do it for me, I'm afraid," he told her gravely.

Her eyes widened and she smacked her hands over her face. "Brought it on myself. Apologies, Emily, sister of Jarod. Stupid woman's fault. Stupid, stupid woman with too much caffeine in her system."

"I'm confused," Jarod interrupted.

"Right, in that case, so am I," Reagan replied. "I don't see what's so confusing about homicidal fantasies, in honesty, but be my guest, lay it out for me."

"Ah, you see, them's the trick. I'm fine now, thank you. Homicidal fantasies. Who would have thought?" He smiled uncertainly.

"I may be a child but I'm not an idiot and I'm not naive," Reagan told him seriously. He glanced at Zaiid. "_Adios, Jorge. Mucho_ work to do, no?"

"_Si_, young man."

When Zaiid had left, Reagan returned his attention to Parker. "May we veer away from discussing family matters in front of those who are not family members, in future?" he asked.

Parker took a hand off her face and waved it at him. "It's your fault. You, with those eyes."

Jarod laughed. "He can hardly help the way his eyes look, now, can he, Parker?"

"Shut up, retard!" Parker snapped.

"Why, thank you, my dear."

"I apologise if I offended you in any way," Reagan told Emily, with a serious expression on his face. "I must try more strongly not to allow myself to get carried away in other people's fancies and imagine them as my own. This is a sign of very bad training; reflects very badly upon my mentor, very hurtful for he or she."

"No. I'm fine. Not offended or anything," Emily replied, kinda lazily. "I'm just sittin' here, wond'rin' when we can all get back on the road - hit the track, Jack. Mack?" She shrugged.

Parker snorted, grinning. "Be off with ye, young rascal! Seriously, though, I think Emily's got a point. This place is making me cagey and I am stone _cold_ sober." She shot a glance out the window, where Charles was busy chatting into his cell phone. She glanced back at Emily, then stood up and walked around the table to whisper something quietly in her ear. "I totally dare you to hit on that French guy."

"He's Algerian," Emily whispered back, "and no."

"But I'm bored."

Emily laughed incredulously and took her arm, steering her away from the table, to the women's bathroom.

"What?" Parker asked. "Was that terribly fake twin?"

"Terribly, love. Terribly."

"Can you just do it to distract me? I have the sudden urge to-"

"Chill out," Emily told her sensibly. "I'm not going to flirt with some strange guy just so you can get a laugh out of it."

"I am seriously falling asleep here! And it would _absolutely_ help my crabby mood!"

"Of course."

"Naturally." She scratched her cheek irritably. "I might start taking my clothes off soon!"

Emily laughed. "Oh, rubbish! When did... that ever happen? I don't believe it."

"You should ask Sam that," Parker told her, with a twinkle in her eye.

"Go away."

"Samantha."

Emily rolled her eyes.

"Wait, no, there was that one time. You should have _seen_ Sydney's face!"

Emily shook her head. Oh sure.

"I'm serious!" Parker told her. "It was totally a setup, of course. The Dare Ring, who else! But it was the most hilarious thing _all week_."

"Who are the Dare Ring?" Emily asked.

"Lyle made it up. Creep boy. They, like, dare each other shit. Rules: You gotta be in it to win it; you can't dare anyone anything unless you're a part of the group, therefore, you can get dared back. Once a dare is completed, the daree of the dared cannot be chosen for the next dare. You have two options: truth or dare. The only person who has to know you've completed the dare (or answered the question asked truthfully), is the person who dared you (or asked you), in the first place. That's the Dare Ring. It sucks. I hate it. I don't know why Broots ever joined up. I didn't ask him to, and that's the honest to God truth, although it may have had something to do with his sudden and distressing Cox fetish."

"You're kidding me?"

"No, man! The Dare Ring rocks!"

"Come again?"

"It's totally comedic! This one time, Midori dressed up as a kangaroo for the Halloween do. Nobody, _I mean_ nobody, asked her to dance. Not even Reston, for some reason. Weird. _Ladies man!_" She shrugged. "But we all know who Reston's really in love with." She sniggered.

"I don't know," Emily replied.

"Lyle. His own fault, mind you. Won't recount events; have to see to believe. So funny. But I will tell you one thing: the only reason Reston quit buggin' me to go out with him was because Lyle asked him not to. Asked? Hmm. Anyway, that was the _only_ reason."

"You're having me on," Emily said.

"It's the truth," Parker replied, making a face. Why wouldn't Emily believe her? "Okay, so maybe I was bending the truth just a little when I said Reston was in love with him, utterly terrified of him might have been a better choice of words, but hey, what's the difference, between buds?"

"Terrified how?"

"Terrified as in _If I don't comply with gay little creep's demands, said creep might pull a repeat stint of Halloween party fiasco, equalling total humiliation in front of colleagues and entire credibility swan diving off the top of the roof - again!_" She winced. "Apologies. Make that bisexual little creep!"

"Really?"

"No kidding. Sam. Sam the Sweeper. Sam the Man." She widened her eyes and added, in a whisper, "_My_ Sam!"

"Sam snitcher!"

"You said it, girlfriend. What a snitch! A perfectly good Sam - gone to waste like that!" Parker sighed. "Poor Sammy love."

"Hey?"

"Raines. Always calling Sam 'Sammy, my love'. Way embarrassing for Sam. Waaaay embarrassing. Mostly when he's drunk, though, I'll admit, but one shouldn't admit such a thing. Oops, drunk, at work, again. My, my. Shall we be treated to a little of our favourite voyeurism later on in the day, too; office shenanigans? Well, damn me if I didn't see it before - Reston's his love child! It's _not_ just Frankencreep! Ooo, creepy. So creepy. Reston was hitting on me! Ew! Scarred for life! Ew-whoo!" She shivered. "Where's my fake twin when I need him? Must have something inappropriate to say to detract from horror."

"Um, like your boobs look hot in that top?" Emily asked.

Parker snorted. "They do?"

"Yes."

"I like it!"

"I should've just... kept my dumb trap shut."

Parker smiled at her. "You never heard that one? The thing about Raines thinking himself this great womaniser? It's totally old school, baby. Everyone's heard _that_ one. I gotta say, though; I just can't imagine Billy-Bob and Patience," she wiggled her fingers, "together. It's scary!"

"Patience Cox?"

"No shit, Emily."

"She's married."

"Yeh, I know."

"So wouldn't that make him an adulterer, not a womaniser?"

"He can be both, actually. I think that would make him extremely happy. After all, fake twin was never accused of that. 'One-upped, baby! Who da man?'"

"Didn't you one-up them all?"

Parker choked and laughed. "Oh my God! You total and utter bitch! And yes, ho, I did! Go me!"

"I am not a ho, thank you," Emily replied, shaking her head at her friend.

"No offence."

"It's fine."

"Double dare!"

"No! For God sake, Parker. What is your fixation with this French/Algerian guy, all of a sudden?"

Parker looked thoughtful, for a moment. "Easy, babe. He so has that Sydney thing going on. _You_ know! My Sydney! Jarod's Sydney! _The_ Sydney! Sydney who thinks all women are out there to get him, and I mean in a sexual way, Sydney."

"Rubbish."

"Um, no, they are."

"Rubbish."

"I've seen it. Okay, so maybe not all women, but a lot more than Sydney's comfortable with. Which, come to think of it, is probably very, very few. He's a bit of a stick-in-the-mud, bit of a prude."

"I'm a stick-in-the-mud," Emily said.

"Don't you mean you're a frog-in-a-pond?" Parker asked, widening her eyes meaningfully.

"Stop it, will you. No wonder poor old Syd's uncomfortable around women. He's been hanging around you too long. It's traumatised him for life."

"Uh-ah. I'm serious. And you know I am."

"La la."

"Dude, I'm serious." Parker scootched up closer to her and whispered, "Empathic sharing."

Emily pushed her away with a hand. "I don't need to hear that, Mel!"

"But it's awesome! You're, like, this weapon of mass destruction for my twin!"

"I thought you didn't believe that," Emily said dryly, to her raised fist.

"I don't. Of course I don't. He's not my twin. Never was, never will be."

"Not... that _that_."

"I dunno, you know. How would I know? I'm not the Convergence expert."

"You've had Convergence before. You know what it feels like."

"For me!"

"So."

"So. It felt... different, with you guys, frog-in-a-pond."

"Enough with the frog-in-a-pond BS, Mel!"

"I think I like it!"

"Well... unlike it! Like, now! Or I'll kick your butt!"

"Go kick Algeria's butt instead."

"No."

"Then... don't kick it. Just... you know-"

Emily slapped her arm. "Shut up."

"I can't!"

"BS," Emily muttered, reaching for the tap. "Splash some water on your face or something. Just quit with the love angel crap already. It's making my skin crawl."

"Is not," Parker defended. "That's you, not me. You know you like Algeria boy. You just wanna spa-"

"Hi!" de Berg chimed brightly. "So we're all ready to go, if you guys are."

"Coming," Parker said dully, waving a hand at her to get lost. She deflated. "Dude, missed opportunity." She planted a hand over her heart. "Suddenly, it's painful."

"Oh, you rotten person," Emily replied, and walked off, after de Berg.

"No! It's the truth!" Parker gasped.

Emily stopped at the door, and turned back around. "Are you for real?"

"Yes. He's so cute. He's like a widdle weddy bear. I could totally hug him to death."

Emily sighed. Yeah, and that wasn't what she'd been meaning. Plus, creepy or what?

Parker stopped at the counter and tossed her chin in Zaiid's direction. "Ooo, Jorge!"

"Yes?"

She passed him one of the diner's business cards, on the back of which she'd scribbled her cell phone number. "My sister likes you. So keep in touch."

"This is your sister's telephone number?"

"Cell phone number. And no, it's mine."

"You don't know your sister's cell phone number?"

"New phone. What can I say? I'm waiting for her to call me so I can... get her number."

"Perhaps, here, you are engineering a nice little practical joke for your sister?" he suggested.

"Rubbish," she said, shooting him a dubious look out of the corner of her eye.

"Hmmm?"

"No."

"You are certain?"

"Certainly, I'm certain."

"You'll forgive me if I don't believe you, madam."

"No. I'll never forgive you."

"That hurts me."

"I can see that."

"Yes." He nodded. No attempt had been made to appear hurt, or in anguish.

She bit her lip. "Seriously, Frog-in-a-Pond's well into you. You should give her a tingle sometime. Give me a tingle and I'll pass it along."

"I think not," he replied, giving her a very _Unpleasant feeling, suddenly_ look.

"I mean _call her_, you twit!" she returned, witheringly.

"What is her name?"

"Emily."

"And what is your name?"

"Melanie."

"I see."

"You'll call then? Tonight? She'd really like someone to talk to. I mean, if that's all you feel comfortable with. But, hey!, she's a looker, right? She's pretty?"

"She has an agreeable face."

"That's way creepy, Jorge."

"Zaiid."

"Zzz-whatever."

"St. Clair, if you'd prefer."

She sighed and glanced around the roadhouse. Dully, "Nope. David's not here."

"Pardon, madam?"

"My brother."

"I'm sure he's waiting for you outside, madam."

"No, he's not. And if he was, I'd just have to kick his butt into next year."

"Pardon?"

"He owes me money," she replied drably. "A heck of a lot of money."

"I see."

"Therapist's charges, Jorge. Therapist's charges."

"Does your pretty sister also frequent a therapist, might I ask?"

"Yeah. And the answer is _no_." She sighed. "Hey, you call. I'd hate to have to come back here and kick your butt into next year!"

"We shall see," he replied.

"You don't call my sister and you'll see, Jorge. Me, butt-kicking!"

"Why, you're quite charming."

"I'm always charming, Jorge. And my sister - she's even more charming than I am! In a passive way. I'm the aggressive one, you see, and she's the passive one. I'm the fighter, she's the lover."

"Your family is waiting."

"My family is always waiting, Jorge. They don't call it _fashionably late_ for nothing!" With that, she spun about and walked primly out. That was her creepy deed for the day: done. Maybe a little well done, a little overdone. Asking herself, Honestly, girl, what possessed you? By what power were you compelled? Under which wicked spell have you fallen?, she could come up with no answer.

.

He was woken by the feeling of a slight jolt as a car door beside the van knocked into its side, then the loud sound of a door slamming, the sharp beep of central locking. Some people took real good care of their cars. He blinked open his eyes and struggled to remember the dream he'd been having - to remember Mel's number. He missed Mel, missed Reagan, missed a lot of people. But the dream was gone now.

Outside, he could hear more car doors slamming. It wasn't an wonder, though; he'd parked in a busy shopping centre car park. There was bound to be slamming doors, shouting people and all sorts. No more caravan park, no more shower block with hot water whenever you wanted. He was out of that place.

It wasn't just his name, or the way he looked, he thought, though he could have very easily blended in if he'd taken an American accent - it was more than that. He wasn't as young as he'd used to be, as some of the others were. Looked to be in his mid-forties. And he wasn't outgoing or bubbly or overly eager to jump to someone else's commands. Get the job done, and done well, yes, but not blindly obey with no will or mind of his own. People liked the whole "no will of one's own" angle, employers especially. The Centre had been exactly the same.

"Manage to get any sleep?" Tazu asked, from the seat over, and he glanced at her as though she might move closer; it was cold.

"A little, I guess," he told her. "Are you cold?"

"No." It was on the tip of her tongue to say, "I'm dead", as if he needed reminding, but she held herself back. He'd been having a rough time of it, lately; it wouldn't have been very kind. "You?"

She could see that he was shivering, but he just smiled. Maybe, if they got out and had a look around the shops, he'd warm up a bit, and then, by the time they left, the sun would have got up a bit higher in the sky and it wouldn't be so cold.

_Sale day today_, she thought, there'd be a lot of people bustling about. Which was why all the cars, more so than usual. A sale always got the crowds, didn't it?

He reached for a tissue for his blood nose and Tazu frowned. He'd been getting those more often. Not badly, just more often. She didn't like it.

Suppressing a sigh, she zapped herself outside and stood watching a gathering of gulls and crows pecking and squabbling over a pile of junky fast food leftovers that'd been turfed by some people who'd no longer been hungry or merely hadn't cared for the taste of it; perhaps it had gotten cold too quickly. The birds didn't seem to notice her and that was fine by her.

.

Emily shook her head and walked off. For heck sake! She'd thought she wouldn't be remembered by Fay's kids, but she'd thought wrong. Now it looked like Lucas had it in for her, big time. He kept made snide remarks at her about reporters, about how they were some big menace to society, how all they did was perpetuate the money men's lies, and she was getting damn sick of it, frankly. She was ready to sock him one, if he didn't stick a lid on it soon. In the very least, she'd be _more_ than willing to walk out. She hadn't signed up for this shit, to have to stand by and take this crap from some rich bastard who was talking out of his asshole because, no matter what, he said, he always went along with the 'money men', word for word, whatever they said: it was how _he_ made his money. The hypocritical jerk!

Yeah, she'd let herself be talked into this visit with the vague notion of catching up with Aunt Fay, with seeing her mom smile again, for once, in a long time, but not for this bullshit, she hadn't! No way in Hell! Jen, for her part, seemed to find her brother's comments _amusing_; she'd turned into a regular nice type, who'd let someone else run their mouth about their beliefs whilst she kept her mouth resolutely shut, except for the occasional snicker she couldn't contain, and the Weren't they all so hilarious? gleam to her eye. So fuckin' hilarious!

It was hard for Emily to appreciate Fay's cooking when her kids were acting all high and mighty, and when Fay seemed so oblivious to it all. In her world, at least, everything was dandy. The woman's attitude got under Emily's skin. _Thanks for nothing_, she thought darkly. At the first chance she got, she was out of here! She'd take a bus, anything. She didn't care. She was just sick and tired of the yuppy element.

Later, after lunch, Lucas came and found her outside, in the garden, which was where she'd been hiding out, away from Jen's contrived laughter and Fay's stick-on smile, away from her mom's seeming oblivion to it all. Emily didn't want to talk to him, but he wasn't giving up, he just kept pressing her: How're you finding the weather? How about Mom's cooking, eh? As spectacular as ever. I'll bet it's not what you're used to. Quality ingredients, that's the difference. A little money behind you.

She'd been sitting on a swing hanging from a large and very old tree, but now she stood up. She didn't like Lucas looking down at her the way he did, with that uppity sneer of his on his face, and the way he threw his voice about, in that same sneer, made her want to gag. He was so self-assured, standing there like that. She decided that he'd just become a very real possibility for the next top candidate on her Idiots I Don't Hate to Hate list.

He was an idiot for sure.

Of course, she didn't let him get away with thinking her despondent or standoffish; she answered each and every one of his questions: Thus far, I've actually been pleasantly surprised by how the weather's played out. It's been quite nice, so far. Yes, Fay's cooking is something of a dream. (A lie, but hey, everyone told them.) Just as I remember it. Oh, no, you're not wrong. But it's not always about money. Quality doesn't always cost you rubies and diamonds.

"So, what do you think? Jenni-elm's grown up quite well, eh? Quite the woman, nowadays, isn't she?"

"Don't let her hear you calling her that," Emily cautioned him. "She'll not be very pleased for it. You know how she used to hate it."

"I do," he agreed, a wry smile twisting his mouth. He'd always found it amusing, to be honest. "Still does, you know."

Emily shot him a _Well then_ glance.

"You don't look too bad yourself," Lucas said abruptly.

She made a face. "I suppose you were expecting me, in all my poorly squalor, to have turned out hideous and unsightly. My goodness, Luke, don't be naive! It doesn't suit you."

He grinned, a gleam in his eye, and stepped closer. "So you _have_ been looking, you _naughty_ woman!"

She didn't like the insinuation in his voice one bit. Before she could do anything about it, however, he'd suddenly stepped closer and backed her into the tree behind her. She felt ridiculously like puking up all over him, all of poor Fay's 'spectacular' cooking gone to waste, in an instant! The smell of his expensive cologne made the feeling worse, but his cologne was nothing compared to the vibes he was giving off.

She just wanted him away from her!

The problem was, she didn't want to hurt him in the process, and she definitely didn't want to have to explain why she'd had to do that. Unfortunately, that, it looked like, was the only way she was going to get him off her. He had her trapped, arms blocking both her exit points, great hulking big man body standing in her way one way, great hulking big tree body standing in her way on the other. She could have ducked down and slipped under his arm to get away, but she wasn't liking the chances that he'd follow her, or that he'd grab a hold of her hair to stop her. Once or twice, as kids, he'd ripped on her hair fairly good and she was yet to forget that experience. Sometimes, the look in his eye could be so cold as to stop a person's heart clean, but just for a fraction of a second, never any longer than that. Fay had always maintained it was merely a sign of his sharp intelligence and wit, that he'd merely been thinking quite studiously of something, at that point in time. Emily could remember her mom picking up on that look of his and making comment one day, and that being Fay's response. "He's just a smart boy. Sometimes, he gets lost in his thoughts and nothing else seems to matter, for a second or two." Emily wasn't so sure Fay knew bollocks about what she was talking about, but perhaps she did; perhaps it was a look of calculation, of pure calculation.

Lucas was giving her that look now, the calculating look. His mouth was smiling but his eyes were all calculating variables, calculating the best possible way to the biggest possible gain in his favour.

"Cut it out, Luke!" she warned evenly, a darkening edge to her voice. "I'm not interested in any of your little games, no matter what you may have construed from my talking to you. I have every right to talk to whomever I so wish, and, when spoken to, to reply. Without you construing it to mean that I must wa-" She didn't get the rest of her sentence out, though, because, at that moment, Lucas had dropped his mouth to hers and proceeded to kiss her voraciously.

_Jen_, she thought wildly. _Jen, please, I need your help!_ But Jennifer was nowhere in sight; they were alone, at the bottom of the garden.

"Oh, _I know_ you do!" Lucas breathed thickly, breaking the kiss to grin wickedly.

_Breathe_, Emily told herself distantly. _Just breathe._ Suddenly, trapped in Luke's dark gaze, trapped in his hold, even that seemed too hard. Her asthma was in full flight again.

"You want me like a dog wants fresh meat, still hot from the kill!" he hissed, his hands going to the backs of her thighs and sliding farther up, slowly, to cup her backside.

She was gasping for breath now, but he didn't seem to care; the tears pouring down her face didn't mean a damn thing to him.

_Lucas Cambridge Donnelly Smythe, get your damn hands off me, you rabid mongrel,_ she thought hazily, _and leave me the Hell alone! Leave me to get my breath before I die and you're left with a still-warm corpse on your hands and your slobbery saliva all over its mouth, you creep!_

He'd stopped caring about her, however, had stopped even seeing her, it seemed, as anything but an object to fulfil his pleasures, because, next second, his hands had slipped under the hem of her summer dress and rode it up, into the small of her back, whilst his hands dipped down, into her underwear, to caress her backside.

She couldn't think straight anymore, let alone see straight; her vision was all mixed up, all blurry bits of colour, like a funny, sinister collage, the tears running down her face sometimes mixing the colours together confusingly. Unless that was just her brain, suffering from lack of oxygen. She couldn't be sure, and it didn't even seem to matter all that greatly, either way.

The next thing she knew, the sun was on her face again, the old tree was some way away, and she was sitting on the grass, the soft green grass, warm and cold all at the same time. And she could breathe. Just barely.

Lucas was gone, nowhere to be seen, the bloody bastard, and there was a boy sitting with her on the grass instead. A boy with blue eyes that looked so familiar to her, so familiar, she couldn't help but trust them, couldn't help but trust the boy, whoever he was. Whoever he was, he meant her no harm.

The sun continued to play on her face, drying up her tears, and she closed her eyes, breathing for her life; the colours were just too much, all vying for her attention at once, suddenly, too much. She concentrated on the feeling of the sun, so warm, and on breathing.

For a long time, she just sat on the grass, on Fay's immaculately kept lawn, and breathed.

It was Fay's sharp voice that cut through her sun-warmed bubble, insisting that she open her eyes, insisting a deep, dark, secret anger. "Get out!"

What had Lucas told his mother? she wondered, quickly, before she noticed that Fay was barely noticing her at all: all her attention was fixed on the boy. Yes, the boy was evil. And she wasn't going to stand idly by and allow the likes of him to lounge casually in her backyard! No, siree! She was not!

The boy glanced at her, and Emily realised he was sitting really quite close. Quietly, calmly, he said, "Shall we stand?", and they stood up, the boy's attention returning, once again, to Fay, to the fiercely glowering old lady. He sighed. "As you wish." Then he moved away.

Emily felt the vastness of Fay's "backyard" rush back in, the emptiness of it, suddenly, without Fay or the boy, though they weren't standing so far away yet, Fay, never taking her eyes from the boy as though he might disappear, only to reappear somewhere else she'd not favour, if she did.

Emily breathed deeply. It was okay now. It was okay. She was okay. She hadn't died; here she was, alive. In Fay's backyard. It was okay.

When Fay had turned back to her, Emily found her eyes boring into her. They hadn't lost any of their intensity, or any of their deep-seated anger. "How do you know that thing, Emily?" she spat, as though merely speaking the words was an affront to her, disgusting, to her.

"I don't," the younger woman replied seamlessly, unaffected by Fay's suddenly dark mood. "I must have taken a turn, and, next thing I knew, I was here, and he was too. I don't know quite how it happened." Then, she said, "Asthma, Fay. I'm asthmatic."

"Are you now?" Fay breathed scathingly, and turned on her heel and marched back to her ritzy house, not waiting for her reply.

.

Inside, with four walls, a floor and a ceiling at every turn, the events of the previous minutes - How long had it been? She had no idea - seemed so strange, so distant, it was hard to picture it at all, when she wasn't looking at Lucas, at the self-assured way he played like nothing at all had happened. And even then, a part of her wanted to say, _No, he was once my friend. He was._ How could she not believe this, when she was standing in Fay's house, in his mother's house, when she was only vaguely thinking of what might be next, what might be for dinner, because she'd had lunch at Fay's house, with Fay and her grown children? When they'd all been seated around the table, laughing?

She knew she was mad at Lucas - Boy, was she mad! - but she wasn't ready to condemn him yet. So why was he acting that way? Why did he have to come off that way? As though he thought he could do whatever the Hell he so pleased and get away with it - every damn time! As though he thought that the world worked to his accord, drummed to his beat, and _only_ his! How could he be like this? He'd not been so bad when she'd known him as a boy, surely. As a child. He'd been... different. He'd _cared_!

Now, she didn't know. Did he care? Beyond himself, did he care about anything else, any_one_ else? Or was it just all for show. A glossy, well-rehearsed, carefully-spoken presentation, designed to falsely placate? Was he just the same as Lyle? Absolutely insane? Beyond it, even!

She couldn't handle it, all of a sudden. Fay was her mother's lifelong best friend! She'd only come here because of her mom. She hadn't wanted to come, really! And then, when she had, getting here, she'd realised that she didn't know these people anymore - well, she'd suspected as much, expected as much - but she'd realised that she really didn't _understand_ them, even. Even so, she'd tried. She'd tried really hard. And now this.

She didn't want anything to do with it. She just wanted out. So, when Margaret announced that Faith had invited them to stay a couple of nights, and Lucas smiled, in silent reply, she knew that she couldn't, she just couldn't do it!

She agreed, anyway.

And promptly decided that she needed to get out of the house, that she wanted to see the town. Standing efficiently, without a hint of wobble to her legs at all, she strode to Jen's side and politely enquired with her as to the possibility that she show her around town.

But Jen couldn't do it. She had to be home; Paul was waiting. Fay decided, then, to show Margaret and Emily to the guestrooms, and Emily lay down on one of the beds and stared up at the ceiling, at the afternoon light as it faded away, into early evening. No-one came to get her, and she didn't fall asleep; she just lay there, watching the light on the ceiling.

.

He'd been crying. She could remember that. He'd sunk down the wall, to the floor - not into a chair, by the bed - and he'd just started crying. Well, she hadn't seen it happen, but she'd seen him crying. Quietly, too. It had made her feel funny, sorta freaked out. Med Space Director, _her_ boss, crying. About his Pet, no less, about the loony. It made her wonder how pissed he'd been when the Pet had done in Kyle, his other pet. Had he cried then, too, or was this one his favourite pet? She'd withdrawn into herself then, and searched for some kind of feeling inside her, but she hadn't found anything like the look in his eyes then; she hadn't found anything remotely resembling the urge to cry. She might have been the boy's step-mother - if she'd married James, if he hadn't done what he'd done - and yet, she wasn't sad; she wasn't crying.

But it made her feel weird to see her boss crying, just like it made her feel weird whenever she saw Cox thinking about his sister because someone else had mentioned her, or been talking about her; the younger sister everyone said he'd done in, but that the weird feeling she always got then said, no, that just wasn't true: he'd never have hurt her. Could have come at him with a knife, out-of-her-mind insane, and he'd have just smiled and asked, "What's up, little sister?"

She didn't know if the weird feeling could be trusted, but the weird feeling had told her the Director was sad, actually sad. Wow!, she'd been surprised, she'd never known he actually knew how to feel sad, really sad, like people sometimes did. She'd just thought... that it was all just a bit of a con.

Now, as she stood in the underground parking and watched him standing by his car, reading through a file in his hands, reading glasses on, she wondered if she might go over and say something. "Hi" would be a start.

A gaggle of giggling women passed by and she dropped the thought. The Director didn't even look up as they passed him, finally, or perhaps he did, but very briefly, but he put up a hand and called out, "Goodnight, ladies," and, almost as though unconsciously, they stopped giggling and chattering to call back, "Goodnight, Director Raines."

They hadn't said anything to her. Then, neither had she said anything to them.

The Pet was gone now. Had escaped, or was dead, who cared? Parker and the boy were gone, too, as though they'd been in on it together - a real family affair. But nobody really believed that. Parker never would have trusted that son-of-a-bitch to do anything, let alone anything involving a kid, or mutual trust. Some people were thinking the freak had found out about her plan to rescue his "little brother" and had tried to stop her, and that she'd shot him and dumped the dead body somewhere, but Fulton never contributed to those gossip sessions, and Cherry and Plum were always quietly appalled, saying nothing, their eyes doing all the saying for them: We think you're awful.

Cherry and Plum weren't sisters, they were as different in appearance as two people could be, but they were like sisters, even twins, at times; sometimes, they weren't two people, but one unit, just one person, in two bodies. It was strange to see. And sometimes, it made Fulton sad, it made her aware, suddenly, acutely, that she was alone. And she hated that feeling of aloneness. She hated it passionately. She tried to tell herself that this one passion alone was enough, for now, that to know what she didn't want to be, to know it intrinsically - she didn't want to be alone - was enough, but it wasn't, and she was just lying to herself. She didn't want to be alone anymore. She wanted to be a part of something, to have someone, even just to talk to, to share the occasional glance with, and to think, _We're in this together_, or _Yes, that one's mine_, or _I'm with you_.

She didn't know why she was looking at Raines when she was thinking this - he was the worst creep under the sun, really - just that she had the vague notion that, sometimes, when he was sad, he was really sad, and it wasn't make belief, just the vague notion that he was alone, too. She wasn't the only one. Even the bad ones got sat, and were lonely, they didn't win them all, just as the good ones didn't. In the end, it probably didn't even matter if you were good or bad, because if you could feel, you could change, tomorrow could be different from today.

She was struck, then, by a single, sombre thought: But what would it take to believe that you could do it? That you could change tomorrow? Be something that you hadn't been today? _Feel_ something that you hadn't felt today?

In the end, she didn't know what it would take, but she decided a step - any step, at this point - an attempt to connect, was a step in the right direction. She didn't go with _hi_, after all. "You might find the lighting at home more agreeable, sir," she suggested.

He nodded distractedly and went on reading, perhaps to the end of the sentence, before looking up to acknowledge her. "Good evening, Dr. Fulton."

He hadn't called her Doctor in a long time - it was just Fulton, mostly - so she found that strange. Was it an attempt at friendliness, perhaps? Or merely a courtesy, a formality?

When she didn't return the gesture, he let her in on a little of his business. "I'm waiting for someone."

"Yeah?" _I know the feeling._

"My wife."

"She's dead", she nearly said, but stopped herself, at the last moment. "Your wife, Dr. Raines?"

"Edna."

_I know your wife's name._ "Why are you waiting for her here, sir?"

He closed the file he was reading and looked around the car park. With a sigh, he said, "I suppose you're right. Awfully uninviting place. The thing is, you see, Cherice, I don't feel particularly like going home, so I'm waiting for Edie to tell me I should."

She frowned. "Your wife's ghost?"

He sighed. "It's far too fanciful, I know. I should know better, I realise-"

"What about if I tell you to go home?" she interrupted.

He smiled. "I think you already did," he replied, in good humour.

It was strange how much difference a smile could make, she thought. A _real_ smile. Too much of a difference. It actually chilled her a little.

"You're right, of course, my dear. Very right. No sense in standing around this gloomy, old place all night, is there?" - he'd called her _my dear_, not _love_ or _honey_ or _my love_ - "Right then, best be off! A pleasant evening to you, my dear."

"Thank you," she replied, on automatic response.

"Not at all."

"Happy travels."

He laughed.

She hardly heard the sound at all; that weird feeling was back and it was standing in the way, dragging her back - away - now, cautioning her to the danger ahead. Though she was standing right there, right there beside him, inside, she felt a million miles away; so very distant.

"And the same to you."

She nodded, and turned and walked away. The usually loud sound her shoes made on the concrete was dull tonight, almost not there. She couldn't think why that was, when, just a few minutes earlier, it had been clear as a bell.

She supposed she had better get on home. It was time for tea, anyway.


	13. Chapter 13

Margaret came into the room to wake her for dinner and Emily managed to motivate herself enough to get up and get downstairs, to the dining room, along the way, running her hands through her hair to untangle it, if it had gotten knotted up from sleeping, but she wasn't terribly hungry. She wasn't tired, either, she just didn't feel like doing anything, _like_ anything; she just wanted to lie down again.

She wondered how Mel was, what she was doing right now; if she was happy and well, how the kid was doing, if he was adjusting alright.

After dinner, she had a look around at Fay's photographs, the easily accessible ones only, of course, she didn't mean to be intrusive, and found that there were plenty of Luke and Jen, but none of Steve, and, even more surprisingly, none of Fay herself. Giving up on finding a picture of a younger Fay, finally, she took one of Fay's books - one of those she'd written under the pseudonym Farrah Smilie - off the shelf and sat down to read some of it. It was a romance, not terribly her thing, but she needed to do something. Her sudden newfound lethargy frightened her.

At about nine, Fay came in to tell her she had a call. It was Luke. For a long moment, Emily did nothing, said nothing; she toyed with the idea of declining the call, but then she shut Fay's book, rose to her feet, and did the right thing. She took Luke's call.

He wanted to invite her 'round for dinner the following evening, to meet his family and apologise for his... out-of-character behaviour towards her today. She had no comment on that descriptor, she just explained that she was feeling unwell - suddenly, yes, she was - and that she'd see how she felt tomorrow. If she'd come down with anything, she wouldn't want to infect anyone else, or run the risk of doing so. Luke, first asking how she was, soon brushed it off as homesickness; he was fine, after all, and he'd spent time in her company (he'd kissed her); Jen was fine, he was sure, he'd not heard her call and say otherwise, but if she liked he could do so now. No, she told him, it was late, and beside the point. If she had come down with something, it would take a few days for the bug to start effecting Jen and he, for it to build up to sufficient levels for them to start noticing the effects.

She repeated that she would see how she felt and was ready to hang up when he wished her goodnight, and she felt compelled, out of politeness, to do the same for him.

Fay didn't ask what the call had been about, she'd not hung around to eavesdrop, it seemed, but merely asked her if she was feeling fine - she was dragging her feet a little - when she passed by her again, and, nodding - "Yes. Fine, thank you" - Emily went to fetch her book and return it to the shelf it had come from. Suddenly, all she wanted to do was lie down. She'd have liked to sleep, but she had a feeling sleeping was going to prove a lot harder than usual tonight.

.

She must have fallen asleep because she woke at around two, feeling very much like being sick, and had a dig around for her puffer, out of habit. Then, puffer within safe reaching distance, she closed her eyes and tried to get back to sleep. The room was too stuffy, the blankets too hot... Her thoughts became heavy, muddled up and clogged, like a blocked drain, they didn't seem to be able to hold much logic; she was reminded of the backyard, of the way the colours had all slammed into her, suddenly, insistently, demanding she take notice of each and every one of them. She couldn't remember if Margaret had come in to wish her a good night, or if she'd made any reply back. The stillness of the room was suffocating, as though the air just refused to move. She felt like pulling the pillow out from under her head and stuffing it over her face, just to see what would happen, if she'd suddenly be able to breathe again, when she took it away, if the room would suddenly seem a relief.

She did nothing of the sort, until, finally, she drifted back off to sleep, uneasily.

In the morning, when she woke, she sat outside for a long time, in the early morning cold - it was 6:30, or thereabout, before rising stiffly and deciding, at 7, to take a shower.

She was even falling asleep in the shower. She felt, unable to move, drained of energy. The water hardly touched her. She was only jolted fully awake when she felt someone take her hand, or rather, pick it up, and managed to drag her eyes away from the wall, which had been blurry, seconds earlier, to stare at whoever it was. That didn't seem right. Immediately, she wondered if she was still asleep, still dreaming.

"It's the chloroform," Lyle told her softly, bringing her hand up to his face and resting it on his cheek.

She fought down the urge to snap something sarcastic back and tried to relax. This was supposed to be one of those Convergence things, right? It was supposed to be nice. She didn't want to ruin it, didn't want to ruin her chances of feeling a little less crap, so she just smiled. Was she dreaming? "Chloroform?" she heard herself ask, calm as you please. Why was she even asking something like that? she wondered, a second later. People just didn't ask shit like that in sexual fantasies. Not in any romance novel she'd read. Yes, the guy would accidentally slip up and say something stupid that would make the chick think he didn't give two hoots about her, but it never involved chloroform.

Chloroform was creepy. It made people think of getting knocked out by some creep who wanted to do goodness knew what with you, or to you. Emily just hoped he had a good reason for bringing it up: no psycho was ruining her fantasy and getting away with it scot-free! _Particularly_ when she was in such a shitty mood!

"The chlorine in the water converts into chloroform vapour when it heats up."

Her eyes darted to the shower door, then she laughed.

He let go of her hand, returning it to her side with a frown.

She stopped laughing when she realised that he was serious. "Thanks for totally killing my fantasy!" she told him cheerfully, and didn't even think twice about how she'd been contemplating backing him into the wall and making out with him.

"Emily? Would you like a coffee? Fay's making coffees with her new coffee-maker and she asked me to ask you if you'd like her to make you one, too."

Emily snapped her eyes open. "Okay," she called back, staring at the wall blankly. Fuck it! Way to ruin a perfectly good fantasy. "Thanks, Mom."

Margaret said nothing back, so Emily assumed she'd walked off. Reaching for a bottle of shampoo, she decided to at least wash her hair before getting out. Why didn't they just have ozone to sterilise the water or whatever, like they did in some other places? It was so lame.

After her shower, she dried her hair with a hair dryer and hurried off to the room Fay had allotted her to find something appropriate to wear for the promised sunny weather. She wanted to wear something bright and gorgeous today. Not for Luke, but for herself. She felt like shit. The only way to combat it, she decided, was to prove herself wrong, to prove to herself that she was beautiful and alive and funny and that she had every reason to feel good about herself. Almost every reason, she thought darkly. She couldn't even have a decent sexual fantasy nowadays. How fucking shitty was that!

.

To be fair, Paloma - who liked to be called Pax - wasn't a bad wife, or even a bad mother. True, she'd chosen some pretty strange paths in life, she'd chosen to become a police officer, then, later, a detective; she'd chosen to marry him, a gringo with a crazy romance writer for a mother; she'd even let him pick their children's names, Harriet and Joan, when they might have been something ridiculous like Hernanda, Hermosa, Javiera, Jimena, or Jose. The simple fact remained: she was in the way. He'd grown tired of her, and she was in the way. Their children were in the way. He'd never told Pax, but he was sick and fucking tired of their children, of their constant demands for ponies and jewellery and high heels - _high heels_, for kids their age! - and of their stupid eyes, their stupid eyes that looked at him with their _We love you, Daddy? Don't you love us, too?_ expressions!

He'd grown so, so tired. So sick of it all, the constant game, the lying, the way it never stopped, lying to them - lying to _himself_! But he'd decided that tonight was the night, tonight it stopped; when he got home tonight, he'd be a free man, free to pursue whatever fancy popped into his head, whoever popped into his head! An old friend, for instance, for whom he'd recently rediscovered he still had feelings for; _real_ feelings.

That's who he was really thinking about when Pax and he fell into bed, when he turned her over so he wouldn't have to look at her ugly, betraying face - when had she ever cared about what he'd felt?, she'd just dumped all of her shit, all of the shit _she_'d wanted, onto him, and then just expected him to want it too: the marriage, the kids, the whole fucking lot! - when he fucked her until she cried out because it hurt, when he didn't stop, when, finally, he shoved her stupid face into the pillow and held it there until she stopped whingeing, stopped crying those pathetic crocodile tears, stopped breathing. He couldn't think about her at all, about how he must once have cared about her, about the life they'd had together. All he could think about was that old friend.

All he could think about was Emily.

She would be coming over shortly. He'd have to have everything ready, everything perfect. No time to waste. The stage was waiting to be set. He left the bedroom he'd once shared with his wife, her service weapon in hand, and went to say goodnight to their two little daughters who were taking a nap - a _siesta_, Paloma had called it. A long, long siesta, he thought, now. Goodnight - forever. It was going to be so perfect. He'd make it look like he'd just got home and discovered his wife and children butchered. He'd be in tears, distraught, beside himself. And Emily would be there... to make it all better, to help him live through it. To help him go on.

.

Having spent the day out on the town - Jen hadn't been able to take her the day before, so Fay had suggested they make up for that today - Emily felt exhausted beyond words and just wanted to drop into bed and sleep, sleep, sleep. She didn't care about eating or disappointing Lucas's family - disappointing Luke - or anything. She was just dead beat.

Nevertheless, she found something nice to wear, something evening-ish Fay had bought her, slipped it on along with her new high heels, and called a cab. She couldn't disappoint Fay after she'd just bought her so many nice things she hadn't even wanted.

.

The boy was mad. Absolutely stark-raving mad! Lucas had no fucking idea where he'd come from - or _why_; why the fucking Hell - the only thing he knew for sure was that he had a gun and the kid had a knife: he'd best the lunatic for sure! Only, that wasn't the way it played out. Apparently, the kid was just that bit faster than he was, just that bit younger, and the knife was pretty fucking sharp. He'd have accepted no less from something he was paying for! Pretty fucking sharp and pretty fucking painful. But if he'd been the one who'd got stabbed, then why the fuck was the kid crying? That was the one thing he couldn't figure out. Oh, he knew what was coming next, he knew he was going to die, here in this shitty fucking house, along with his wife and kids - how fucking sad - he just didn't know why. He still didn't know why.

As he was trying to hold back his own wretched tears - he was gonna fucking die, man! - he saw the second worst thing he could ever see, the second worst thing, apart from the first, which was Hell. He saw Emily. He saw the sexy, little number she'd worn for him, and the look of horror on her face: the look that told him that he wasn't going to be the one to put his arms around her and tell her, "Honey, it's going to be alright." Some other undeserving, lucky fucking prick was!

That was, if the crazy fucking kid reaching for Detective Pal Smythe's gun didn't off her, too.

He was pleased to see, if it was truly going to be the last thing he saw, and not pretty fucking Emily, that the kid's hands were shaking. Fucking little wimp! But the kid picked up the gun, nevertheless, and, so busy watching the kid, he was, that he never even saw Emily, out of utter desperation, go for the bloody knife that had slipped from the kid's shaking hand without so much as a clatter when it struck the expensive carpeted floor. The kid probably didn't even know Emily was there, he thought with the vague notion of how funny that was, when it occurred to him, when it struck him, why the kid was there - he was Paloma's fucking lover, the cheating fucking slut! - and a sudden rage filled him-

And was strangely tempered by the sound of the knife slicing into warm, living meat, by the look of pain in the kid's eyes - not even of surprise, funnily enough - by Emily's terrified yet defiant stare as she yanked the knife back out of the kid's back-

And the fucking idiot coughed up blood all over the expensive carpet _he_'d paid for!

.

She hadn't meant to go inside. She really hadn't. But she'd felt emboldened by her sudden anger at Luke. Apologise! What a fucking joke! He was never going to apologise to her in front of his family. Even if they'd been out of the room, he'd have done no such thing. He'd just try to put the moves on her again. No way! No way! She wasn't going to stand for any more of Luke's shit, she wasn't waiting around outside like a fucking fool, like some lame door-to-door salesperson, just to satisfy Luke's ego: I can have you wherever I want you, whenever I want! Fuck him! Just fuck him!

Besides, the door had been open. Not open open, but not locked, either. His wife may have needed some help in the kitchen, if he'd even bothered to tell her they were having a guest for dinner; the kids might have been expecting her, a new friend!

It hadn't been a deliberate act to hurt anyone.

And then she'd seen the boy from Fay's garden, had seen him drop the knife he'd just, seconds ago, stabbed into Luke's intestines, and her eyes had instantly gone to the gun; he'd be wanting to finish the job properly, he'd be going for the gun next. And that was when she'd realised: it was too quiet. Never mind why, who _else_ had the boy hurt? And she'd just sort of... gone for the knife, knowing she had to stop him, knowing she couldn't let him get away with _another_ murder, even if it was ratty, asshole Luke!

She just couldn't let him.

And then she'd done it, stabbed him, and there was blood on the carpet. More blood; this time, not Luke's, but the boy's. And more just kept coming, as though nothing could stop it. That was when she realised that she'd made a big, big mistake. She might just have saved Luke's life - if she could get him help quickly enough - but she'd done so at the expense of another's. Did it even matter, then, all of the things he'd done before? Did it matter, when it wasn't even about him? When it was about _her_, about what _she'd done_!

.

It was dark, now, and even darker on this barely-peopled street, just the two of them, her friend, Zaiid, and her, the ghost. But it didn't matter. She was happy. Zaiid was happy. They were making real progress. He'd finally done it, finally developed a prototype serum to disable the biomech upgrades. Nothing else really mattered, did it? If it worked, soon he'd be going home. Right now, they were going back to the van, then the newest trailer park they were staying at. Knocking off early from work because he wouldn't need to go back tomorrow.

Tomorrow, they embarked on the next stage. Zaiid had found a seller willing to offer biomech upgrades – for the right price, of course – and "install" them, too. Then, a week or two later, they'd be able to test the serum for the first time. The prospect wasn't really something happy or smile-worthy, but all Tazu could think was that soon, soon they would be able to help others, soon her friend would be on his way home. On his way back to Mel and Reagan. Mel would be pleased to hear of Naomi's progress – maybe not so pleased to think that he'd hijacked it out from under their noses – but pleased, nonetheless, that the thing that had hurt so many people, had killed so many people, including her brother, Theodore, would soon be curable and not just preventable. Tazu knew how much this meant to her friend, and so, she was happy. She would have to watch her friend get sicker and sicker, as he must have the last time he'd tried anything as foolish, with no-one else to test the serum on, and with no will to find anyone else, let alone the means, she had all that to look forward to still, and yet, she was happy. After they'd perfected the serum, that would be the end. He'd be able to get better again. No more injections, no more bruises, no more pain. Hope. Just hope.

She was happy, just happy – all of the years before, and the mounting, suffocating guilt, the pain when someone else died because of those damn upgrades! – she was so happy... until he stumbled, and blood, glistening and dark, splattered the pavement.

Then she was scared.

And when his head went back and the first crack came, when it became apparent to her that he was going to change - right here, right now - and his eyes did something funny, when they started to glow, all of a sudden, that was when she knew she'd only just begun to know scared.

There was plenty more to come.

.

The boy's head snapped back strangely, his eyes too blue and so, so wide, and then he just sort of... lifted up off the floor with a sharp yank that was sure to have done his back no good and the room was thrown into blinding white relief, the white light bursting all around them and hitting the walls as though with considerable force, and rushing toward any escape point, gushing out into the hallway as though it was water, and not light at all.

For a long time, Emily couldn't see much of anything at all, and then the light seemed to dim, in its strange pulsing way, getting brighter again, only to dim down, a little more each time, a little dimmer each time. And then... it just stopped.

The boy hit the floor with a terrible thud, as though a thing dropped from height to its death, and he didn't move at all, his eyes just went on staring.

.

If she thought that first crack had been something scary, then the series of harsh snapping noises that could be heard all in succession, after the glow had faded from Zaiid's eyes, terrified her beyond words. The last time he'd changed, she hadn't gone into the room to watch, she'd stayed outside, thinking about a place she'd been to as a girl in Japan and had felt particularly calm there, so much so that, as if by magic, she'd found herself back there, in her mind, and she'd been able to ignore everything else until the door had opened, at last, and a stranger had walked out.

Now, she saw that she wasn't going to be afforded that luxury, that, contrary to what she'd fancifully imagined, it hurt. Just watching it made her ache, made her long to close her eyes and stamp her hands over her ears and pretend she'd never even known such things possible.

Her eyes were dry. Crying just didn't seem a variable option. She had to be strong. He'd need her when the change subsided, when he was once again Lyle. He'd probably need a doctor, too, but she wasn't a doctor. All she could offer was her friendship. She wished there was something else she could do, but there was nothing. This wasn't like a regular Reaper change, she thought distantly, it wasn't like that at all. It was damn right barbaric!

Suddenly, it occurred to her - and how strange it was - that Lyle had never explained how he'd found out he could become Amy, how it had first started, and she'd never asked; she'd just sort of thought, _Okay, whatever makes you happy…_, as though she'd not even really believed him. Now, she couldn't even imagine _not_ asking, couldn't imagine not really giving a damn, but, at the time, she just hadn't been that interested. She'd had no doubt that Amy – _Randolph_'s daughter – honestly existed, but she'd not entirely believed Lyle's little story about how she was his sister, about how they were really the same person, just… different. How horrible she'd been, she thought, how horrible, not even to have been bothered to listen! He'd always had identity issues and she supposed she'd just got sick and tired of it, because, come on, if the guy didn't even know if he wanted to be a guy or a chick – that sort of shit just got up her nose. It wasn't her issue to figure out his shit, thank you very much! If he wanted to be a chick sometimes, hey, if it made him happy, then who was she to hold it against him – except she'd seen pictures of Amy, she'd damn well known the woman was just that, a woman! It was just some fucked up Empath thing he had going on, because they'd known each other in Summer Camp, because he'd been roommates with her in university in Virginia. That was all.

She'd never thought it might be anything else. Now she knew differently, and it made her wonder, really wonder. As crazy and fucked up as Raines was, this kind of shit seemed far-fetched even for the likes of him. Had he known? she wondered. Had he been an instigator in it? If indeed, anyone had. She was tempted, on second thought, to put it down to one of Granville's sick, little games, but Bobby had never met the old hag, had he? And as much of an asshole as Lyle "the Tool" Bartholomew was, she just knew he'd never have risked his star pet by attempting something as crazy as that. So the question remained: Had it been by Bobby's own instigation that he'd come by this "gift", or by someone else's? And, if so, whose? It was the sort of airy-fairy story people heard coming out of any number of backyard operations, horror stories the likes of which the Centre and T-Corp, with all of their gory reputations, found totally unbelievable, found laughable, even, and quietly allowed themselves to shudder at: waste of a good Possessor, if you asked them; a damn waste! Nobody in their right mind would do such a thing. Killing and torturing was one thing, but some of the shit they heard about… was just elementally wrong! For instance, they'd never actually _kill_ Jarod – he was their darling, after all – they'd just put him through some hoops, was all, some of them unpleasant, some of them merely to keep him on his toes. They loved him, really: How could they not?

If that was what they called "love", Tazu thought, if what was happening to her friend now was what they called showing the rest of the team how it was done, doing them proud, then she was glad she was dead; she was glad she'd never been born with that sick son-of-a-bitch anomaly!

.

She couldn't face it. She just… couldn't! So she ran. Out of the room, out of the house, onto the street. She just kept running. It didn't matter that she'd lost her expensive high heels someplace, or that her lungs were on fire; she just kept running.

She'd just killed some kid! And he had been a kid, really. How old was he? Fifteen, sixteen. A kid, in reality, and she'd killed him. _She_ had! It didn't even matter what he'd done, because it wasn't about him, it wasn't about what he'd have to live the rest of his life knowing _he_'d done; it was about _her_! For the rest of her life, she would know what she'd done.

Looking from the boy lying motionless on the floor, his eyes too blue, almost too wide, she'd let her eyes travel up, to Lucas, and she'd seen that he'd taken his hands from his wound, that he was fine, better than fine. He would live. And she'd just run.

As a girl, she'd looked forward to running with her best friend, with Mel, though Mel had _hated_ it, more so because she hadn't a choice but to do as she'd been asked, but not only because of that, not only because she had no way to get out of it; she'd been thinking of the time, fifteen years old, she'd dropped dead, her heart stopped beating, clean, no reason at all. She'd been afraid, she'd just thought, _If I die out here, there'll be no-one to help me, no-one around, no-one to be there, when I'm not._ So Mimi had pretended sourness, had showered her with encouraging smiles, had told her about the plants they encountered on their runs, so that Mel forgot all about that one time and started to think about other things, about the future, how the plants would change, when the seasons changed, and of her own future.

Now, Emily knew that no matter how fast she ran, how far she ran, one thing would never change: she'd killed that boy. She'd seen to it that he wouldn't change, ever again. Yes, his body would change, would go the way of all dead things, but he would never change again; even if she was to say, yes, she believed in reincarnation, it just wouldn't be the same; he'd never be the same person again; different body, different life. And she'd ruined any chance that he might have had to become something better in this life.

All she'd been able to think about was Mel, her beloved Mel, fifteen, lying out on that hockey field whilst the others went about their game, dead, her eyes staring, unseeing, up at the blue, blue sky, not quite the same blue as her eyes, as what had once been her eyes, and she'd just thought: Was there someone out there who'd loved this boy, also? Was there someone out there who'd never have the chance to love him, now, because of her? And she couldn't take it… had just had to try, had to try, at least, and run away from it.

But it was there, inside of her, she realised now, lodged inside of her; with every breath she took, it took a breath, too; with every beat her heart made, its heart beat another time. It would never, ever leave her. How could it? It was her, now, and she was it. She was a murderer.

.

He'd seen her go, had seen the look of shock and denial intertwining inside the fabric of her eyes, those beautiful green eyes, and he hadn't cared, he'd just been so… so happy to be alive, he'd let her go. Now, as he looked down at the boy on the carpet, he thought, _Look at me, I'm alive. And what are you?_ If he wasn't dead yet, he would be soon. Very soon, he would be.

By whatever magic the lunatic had used to heal him, to mend his wounds, it had rejected him, it had let him go in the wind. He'd lost out. It was no more than he deserved, Luke thought sharply, darkly, with glee. The boy was certifiable! Insane! He'd had no fucking right moving in on his territory like that – moving in on another man's territory that way – and if he'd forgotten that he was stepping onto someone else's turf, that in doing so he was agreeing to the terms of that engagement, then he'd been a bloody fool, and he'd deserved everything he'd got – and more! After all, those were the rules. Nobody got to play for free. Nobody! He'd thought he was a real man, but all he'd been, in reality, was a kid, a snot-nosed, self-impressed kid!

And now he was dead.

When Luke heard the noise, it was too late to do anything but meet Paloma's eyes, and then she'd brought her dad's old revolver down on his head and he fell to the floor, out cold. He didn't even hear Paloma hurry to find something to pull on, something proper; he didn't hear her wake the kids or take them out the back door, discretely avoiding the living room – she'd wiped the blood from their foreheads onto a sleeve of one of Luke's expensive silk shirts, the one she'd thrown on, along with a pair of crushed pink velour track pants, feet bare – he didn't hear the best things in his life walking out the door. He wouldn't hear anything for a while.

.

Nobody could say how old the boy was, _who_ he even was: it was proving a big problem for Detectives Rossum and Madison. The husband claimed that his wife – currently missing – had been in on it with the boy, he was _sure_ of it, and that she'd deliberately staged the scene to make it look like he'd been the one who'd killed their girls, leaving her and the boy – or indeed, boyfriend – to flee. But then, for some reason, the boy had come back, taken the bodies and presumably dumped them some place, and then confronted the husband. Madison didn't get that; why he'd come back, why he'd confronted the husband. Had it been to gloat? A ransom for money? "Give me the money and I'll give you your daughters' bodies!"? Or had he wanted the husband to think the girls were still alive? Or had the husband, as he'd suggested, interrupted the boy in the process of cleaning up after the wife, who'd killed the kids and fled, thinking that the end of it? Had it been the wife's plan to frame the husband and have the authorities think he'd offed her, too? But then the boy had changed the plan, had wanted the husband to think it nothing more sinister than his wife leaving him and taking the kids with? Why the sudden change in plans? Why the difference of opinion on the matter? And where was the wife now? What was she doing now that her partner-in-crime was in surgery, holed up in some hospital someplace, and they were waiting around to hear the news – good or bad – wondering just how the Hell something as perfect as Lucas and Paloma Smythe's life could go from being so perfect to being a living Hell, so quickly!

As soon as they knew the boy was going to pull through, or not, they'd start with all the usual routes: fingerprints, identifying marks, anything that might indicate a medical history. For the moment, they waited.

.

Jarod had been following the man ever since he'd caught sight of him a couple of states over, and that had been weeks ago. He couldn't have said what had interested him about the man, just that it was something; there was _something_. Now he thought he knew. As strange, as bizarre as it was, as far from making a shred of sense as it was, he knew. He understood.

A young woman had materialised from somewhere and settled herself on the footpath, all slim and shaking, hunkered down close by, arms wrapped around her legs, knees drawn up to her chest, her eyes watchful but only watching one thing, one person: Lyle.

She looked familiar, but Jarod couldn't say why that was, if he'd ever met her before or not. He came closer cautiously and the girl looked up and around, black hair blowing into her face only to be pushed away by a small, pale hand. She looked at him, but something about her gaze looked _through_ him, too. He wondered if she was an Empath, like Lyle himself. She couldn't be his daughter, could she? No, she wasn't Eurasian. Was she his latest girlfriend, then? And why the look? She wasn't even alarmed; she hadn't got to her feet to try and ask him to help. If she knew him, if she knew anything about him, she was keeping it to herself. She was staring at him now, but it was as though she saw him but didn't register what it meant.

The sound of someone coughing drew his attention away from the girl, and the girl's attention from him. Lyle. Being sick, most likely.

The girl knelt beside him, a hand on his back, talking to him quietly. "Jarod's here. At your nine. Don't say anything smart; he can help." She winced and sighed heavily, rising from her knees into a crouch, and sank back on her haunches, resting one hand over her knee.

Lyle didn't say anything back, but the look on his face was almost that of horror.

The girl offered him a smile and winced again.

"You're alive!" Lyle whispered strangely.

The girl frowned, rubbing an ankle, then her eyes widened and she burst out laughing.

Lyle grabbed up her hand and pushed it toward her chest, resting it over her heart so she could feel the beat of it beneath her palm.

She stopped laughing. Her eyes got kind of teary and her lip wobbled. She bit it to make it stop. It only partially worked.

Lyle coughed up more blood.

The girl, hand over her mouth, whispered shakily, "I didn't want this", despairingly.

"Anything I can help you folks with?" Jarod asked now, standing at the kerb, one boot half on the footpath, half in the gutter, hands in his pockets.

The girl brushed her tears away hurriedly and leaned closer to Lyle, putting a hand on his arm. Time to get up; time to get help.

"Interesting talent you have there," Jarod added, just to make sure that Lyle understood that he'd seen everything.

The girl ignored his words and the two of them stood up. Now that she had, Jarod saw that she was wearing a dress that was much too thin for the weather this time of year; something out of the eighties, he'd imagine; very early eighties, but an almost new pair of ballet flats, pink, with little black dots; something you'd be likely to find in the footwear aisle of a bargain department store. How old was she? Jarod wondered. She didn't even look twenty.

Lyle offered the trembling girl his coat, wrapping it around her slight frame and patting her shoulder, giving her a smile.

She rolled her eyes, looked away from him. Wasn't it all just great! This, all just great! She didn't believe it. Not for a second.

The easy manner in which they met each other's eye, in which they shared their emotions, silently or not, in which they touched, made Jarod think they'd known each other for quite some time, years, perhaps, but the girl seemed so young. Had Lyle perhaps known her since she was a little girl, had been moulding her since then, shaping her to suit his tastes? Or could she have been an Empath, a comrade? Would it have mattered to him whether she was or not? He didn't think like that, did he?

Jarod suppressed a shiver, sure that he'd been on the money assuming Lyle had known the girl for a long time, since she'd been just a kid, even. The thought wasn't a pleasant one, but he let it rest for now. He needed to see to whatever was wrong with Lyle, he needed answers and a dead guy wasn't going to be able to give those answers. More blood and other similarly coloured muck hit the sidewalk with an unpleasant splash, accompanied by the sound of coughing.

The girl shivered in her coat and turned to offer him a look of disdain. What was he just standing around for, eh? Lazy bones much?

.

However he'd got the stab wound nobody was saying. His clothes seemed unharmed, apart from the blood. Jarod didn't like it at all. Something had got punctured and it was going to be very dicey, very fast, if nothing was done. In all honesty, Jarod supposed it had been that way for the last ten minutes, but Lyle was a Reaper and Reapers were tough. They swatted away pain like other people swatted away flies in the height of bloody summer.

Now that she had the coat on and the heater in the car was on high, the girl had stopped shivering, but the warmth had done nothing for the fearsome black of her eyes, glittering like a double-edged sword in the street lights, the little illumination thrown back from the dials and meters of the car. He'd never in his life thought that black could be such a menacing colour, but with a soul behind it, it sure as Hell was! It was nothing like the blackness of night, like darkness, at all. It was cunning and it wanted, it had a will. It was something to never, never underestimate.

This girl might have looked young, but she was anything but. In her second cycle, perhaps? Another Empath/Reaper? Certainly not an Empath/Healer, or else she'd have done away with Lyle's wound in a jiffy. Another Reaper, then. _Great, just what I needed!_ he thought sarcastically, as he headed back to his temporary accomodations. _Just wonderful!_

By the time they reached his apartment, Lyle had passed out. The girl woke him up so they wouldn't have the trouble of lugging him upstairs – Jarod had a feeling she had an advantage there – and she helped him into the building, leaving it to Jarod to close the door and lock up the car. It wasn't a terribly hard task if he didn't think about the blood covering the backseat too much, and he managed, even, to get the door for them.

.

Emily didn't know when she'd got off her feet, when she'd dropped down at the bus-stop bench, or when she'd got onto the bus, just that the jarring artificial lights had made her eyes water and she'd felt suddenly more tired that she'd ever felt in her life, as though the lights overhead had thrown some kind of discerning light over recent events, had shown how they were all right there, etched into her skin, into her soul, and how the weight of them would never, never leave her, would tottle around with her for the rest of her life, dragging her down, wearing her out. She must have stayed on that bus for hours until she'd finally got off, wearily, and found another bus that might take her by Fay's, or at least in that direction. It wasn't until she was woken by the morning light coming up behind the houses surrounding Fay's that she realised she'd made it back there in one piece, and that she'd fallen asleep on her doorstep, and she was _damn_ cold!

She stood, on shaky legs, and knocked on the door. Fay was there in an instant, and her face said she hadn't slept a Zzz during the night; her face said there was more bad news to come.

Heart heavy, Emily sunk down at the pricey Italian leather couch to listen and ignored the fact that nobody had been worried about her in the slightest: it was all Luke this, Luke that – and the poor, poor kids. They were dead, of course, Fay told her. The forensic units had found blood and brain matter splattered all about the place. Almost hysterical, Fay was obviously exaggerating, but Emily didn't pick her up on it. She'd seen none of it, when she'd been over then. Then again, Fay didn't know she'd been over there, and she wasn't keen for her to, either. The police didn't know who the boy was, but Fay had told them that she'd seen him lurking around in her backyard the day before, when she'd been by the station to see Luke, to hear of the terrible, terrible news. Then she broke down in tears and slumped down onto the couch beside Emily, but Emily didn't put a hand on her back and offer any kind words. She just looked her mother in the eye and hoped she'd understand without her having to put it into words that she'd very much like to leave now.

But Margaret didn't seem to understand and just strode over, arms folded over her chest, and demanded, "And where we you, young lady, when all of this was going on? Weren't you supposed to have gone to Lucas's for dinner?"

Her mother said it like some damn accusation, but Emily didn't rise to the provocation. Instead, she said plainly, "I went for a bottle of wine, a pleasant accompaniment to a pleasant meal, but then I just… I looked at the bottle and I thought, _Heck, darn, it's too _good_ to share!_"

She didn't realise that Margaret had slapped her until it started to sting, and then she just laughed kind of shortly and looked away from her, out, to the street slowly coming alive again after a long slumber, a long hibernation. It seemed almost offensive – definitely offensive – to laugh when Fay was so wracked with tears, with genuine fucking grief, but the impression of that, the sense of indecency and shame just washed off Emily like the light washed off all of the fancy letterboxes artfully attached to the fences bordering people's homes outside. She didn't even _care_! She knew the kids weren't dead. Just like Luke wasn't. But she'd seriously, seriously fucked up. She'd seriously roughed that angel up, and if it turned out to be Kyle's angel, she just knew that wherever he was, her brother would hate her for what she'd done. All she could think about was how her brother must hate her right now, and it made her want to laugh and cry all at the same time.

.

It wasn't until morning came, bringing with it the sun's rays, that Jarod realised that the girl had gotten rid of her dress and her shoes, and it wasn't just because they'd been splattered with blood, because the coat she was wearing now had blood on it, too. It was because she'd never had anything on to begin with, and if it had seemed that way to him, it had only been because Lyle had wanted it to seem that way, an Empathic trick; just a little trick, but an effective one, up 'til now.

The girl was brand new. Had probably been nicked from that lab Lyle had been working at, ostensibly as a security guard. She even _smelt_ brand new. A little like a newborn baby, all soft and smooth and snugly warm. Why Lyle hadn't given her his coat sooner, well, that was easy to answer: he hadn't wanted to end up freezing his own ass off, had he? He hadn't changed a bit. The question was: Who was this girl? And how much trouble were they in for for stealing her?

Jarod placed a mug of coffee down on the coffee table in front of the sofa and the girl seemed to come awake, coughing abruptly and planting a hand over her mouth, her black eyes immediately going to the coffee. "No, thank you," she said in what he finally understood to be in an accent very much like Lyle's, like the one he'd taken for his job in Blue Cove.

How strange, that she should sound like that, he thought, and returned his attention to her face that was still just as familiar as ever, though the reason behind its familiarity continued to escape him.

"I'm a clone," the girl said now, as if reading his thoughts in his eyes. "That's how you recognise me. Tazu Iakawa Mark II. Pleased to meet you, Mr. Jarod!" She stuck out her small hand, cocking her head to one side as though awaiting his response.

"A clone? You… you think you're a clone?" He tried to make it sound as though he didn't believe in stuff like that, regularly.

"Don't think, I know."

Suppressing a heavy sigh, he reached over and took her hand.

"What do you think?" she asked, with a smile: "Timtu or Tom?"

He frowned.

She smiled even wider, and sprung to her feet, declaring, "Miss Timtu – at your service!", and saluted him.

"Why would anyone want to clone Tazu Iakawa?" he asked, in his big-mystery voice.

Her eyes danced. "Why do you think, Mr. Jarod?" she teased slowly, and scrunched up her eyes. "When you hear that grumpy old mid-life crisis knocking at your door like a mean, nasty old debt collector, you start to get jumpy!" She grinned. "Tuh-dah! Sex toy! Very handy for easing stress and tension!"

He coughed, visibly disturbed, and the girl – Timtu – just laughed, apparently pleased that she'd been able to rattle him. But she couldn't be serious, could she? A clone? Already that old? Making her would have required massive Healer assistance, among other things, and it sure as Hell wouldn't have come cheap, if it was even possible. He didn't know that it was, in fact of matter.

"I'm kidding, silly!" she told him playfully, and tilted her head. "Well, only a little," she revised.

"You are a clone?"

"_Hai!_"

"Why?"

"Very funny joke, Mr. Jarod. Very funny inleed!" She laughed, ha-ha. She kept swapping between serious and that annoying anime-inspired schoolgirl voice.

Jarod didn't look amused.

She sighed, dropping her shoulders. "The truth is, I don't know why. Happy now?"

Jarod shook his head. "Not by a long shot," he returned darkly.

"Poor you!" she purred, without the slightest hint of actually feeling it, and straightened up. "How is my friend?"

Jarod found it strange that she'd chosen to refer to Lyle as her friend, but he didn't bring it up. He just said, "Stable, I'd say." The head tilting thing was very Lyle, too, now that he thought about it.

"The proof is in the pudding," the girl recited. "Where'd you stash him, then?"

Jarod turned and headed out of the room. "Come with me," he said, and she did, almost as if, all jokes aside, she was exactly what she'd said she was: someone's little pet. He wasn't remotely amused by the idea, nor did he think it "cute". He realised, now, that it had been the coffee. She'd been coughing because she'd smelt the coffee.

The sound of her bare feet on the floor, padding along after him, hurt him more than he'd ever be willing to admit. To take his mind off the hollow pain in his chest, he wondered why she'd wanted to be called Timtu, and finally, it struck him: an abbreviation, Tazu Iakawa Mark II. TIM II. She wasn't even to have her own name. That stung.

He would help her choose a real name, he decided, if it took _all_ year.

.

The apartment Jarod was currently staying in was rather ritzy, compared to his usual fare, and featured tinted, double-glazed floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking a manmade lake. When they walked into the room, Lyle wasn't where Jarod had expected him to be, asleep, in bed. Instead, he was on the floor, as though he might have been watching the sun come up over the water. Jarod noticed at once that he must have been up and had a shower, because, apart from the fact that his hair was still wet, he wasn't covered in his previous form's skin or bits of hair. All of his hair looked thoroughly as though it was his own, and thoroughly as though it wasn't going to be going anywhere any time soon.

Chancing a glance her way, Jarod noticed that the girl suddenly wore an expression of concern. She wasted no time crossing the room but didn't get down or get too close. Instead, she said, "Oi, dead animal! You alive down there?"

Animals, when they knew they were dying, would face to the east, Jarod remembered, and moved closer, noticing, now, that Lyle was still alive. At least, for the moment. He was still breathing.

"You care to answer me?" the girl shot snootily, then touched her throat with a hand. "Can you hear me, hon?" Her voice was suddenly gentle.

Why wouldn't he be able to hear you? Jarod almost asked, before remembering that he'd recently, _supposedly_ gone deaf. That was what he'd read in his medical record, anyway.

She knelt down on the floor. "What are you looking at, hmm? What's out there?" She glanced at the window, for a moment, then over to Jarod, before returning her gaze to Lyle. "You, you're far too pale. Has anyone told you that, lately? Why don't you eat something? Hmm?"

"I have to find Bobby," he told her quietly, but Jarod didn't catch it.

"Not right now, you don't," she returned, and his gaze finally flickered to hers.

"Yes, right now. Before someone else does."

She frowned. "Someone else like who?" she asked quietly, then shook her head, confused. "Find him, how do you mean? Your-little-brother-Bobby Bobby, or some other Bobby?"

"_Bobby_ Bobby. He's probably in hospital. That's why… I got sick. Because something happened to him."

She gave him a funny look.

"He… he physically manifested. I… At least I think he did. As in, he's real, he can get hurt. I have to find him."

He sat up, looking pained.

"_We_ have to find him," she corrected him. "You're sure it wasn't that… _woman_?" she asked darkly, knowing that she didn't have to say said woman's name for him to know who she was talking about: Dorothy, his grandmother and so-called "aunt"; the one he called Dorothea. The psycho bitch who'd killed herself and then proceeded to fuck up her children's and her grandchildren's lives with relish! The one who may (or may not) have done Brigitte in, absorbing her energy and thereby annihilating her from the face of existence! Tazu still thought that old bitch was a sure thing for the deed! There was no way in Hell Brigitte would have left her son if she'd had any other choice. Sure, she hadn't gone to "see" him, but she'd stuck around, monitored things, and she hadn't rousted the crap out of Thomas and Kyle for seeing him.

"No."

"If we _are_ going to traipse around the country willy-nilly, looking for Farm Boy Barbie, then first you've got to eat something. I'm not kidding! You look like crap. I'd say you look like Parker, after she's been on the bottle the entire evening, but you'd give me a dirty look, so I'll re-" She dropped the sentence. He hadn't given her a dirty look yet. It was sort of discouraging.

"It's not just me, you know," he told her, starting to slur his words a little. "You've got to eat, too. And that one over there."

She rolled her eyes. "If I smell any more coffee, I'm going to hurl!"

"I don't drink coffee, as you know."

She put out her hands. "A hand?"

"It's okay."

She rolled her eyes again and planted her hands on her hips, casting a glance in Jarod's direction.

"You're going to have to invest in a change of wardrobe, I'd imagine," Lyle told her, on his feet. He held onto her arm to steady himself, and she sighed.

"Yeah, and guess what, I'm not looking forward to it. Unless they have a line called Positively Puny, I don't think anything from the _adult_'s section will fit me, and all the kid's shit will be too short, save the so-_cute_ knickers, of course! I want to keep my legs, I don't want them to _drop __off_! Not to mention, I'm not a little kid – I'm a woman! Everyone will think I'm some youngster!"

"You're in a cheerful mood today," he remarked, earning a glare.

"Just call me Sunshine!" she scathed dirtily.

He smiled.

"Stop it. It's not going to work." Despite her words, she couldn't help but smile a little bit. "Fingers crossed I'll be able to hold down the facon and eggs. I think my stomach's trying to tell me it's hungry."

He crossed his fingers.

"Oh, you twit!"

.

Tazu, who'd told Jarod her new name was Sunshine, and had eaten about a bucket-load of bacon, shuffled out of the change rooms with a _Can't get out of here quick enough_ look on her face, though she was only coming out to show the guys how her jeans and a long-sleeved tee ensemble looked. "I _think_ it fits," she grumbled, turning around on the spot, then sticking a thumb in the waist of her jeans to show them that there wasn't much room there, it fit pretty snugly and wouldn't be falling off her tiny tush anytime soon. "Any thoughts?"

"Have you tried the jumper on?" Lyle asked.

She rolled her eyes. "No, I swallowed it. What do you think? Yes, I tried it on. Yes, it fit. Anything else?" She glanced at Jarod.

"It looks fine," he told her.

She made a face. "Fine", but not "sexy", hey! What a drag, man! She sighed and shuffled off back into the change rooms.

"Think you could possibly speed things up a little?" Lyle asked her, to which she raised a finger. _Nope, so can it._

"Charming, Sunshine, charming."

"That's me. Charming Sunshine!"

In the shoe section, she chose a pair of joggers and went looking for some fluffy socks, which she found, and then Lyle pointed out that she should probably have a look at the coats, to which she made a face and went off to look for a scarf instead, and decided she'd get some gloves and a beanie with a pompom on top, to go along with it.

"Cheerleader," Lyle said, when he saw the beanie she'd picked out.

"Zombie," she came back, and dashed off in the direction of the coats, shopping basket in hand, bare feet drawing attention from no-one because no-one but she, herself, Jarod and Lyle even saw that she wasn't wearing shoes.

After having picked out a long cream-coloured coat, she wandered off in the direction of wherever the underwear were, turning and shooting Lyle a _Don't you dare follow me_ look, and mouthed _You are _not_ my father!_

He put a hand on his chest and she stopped, frowning.

"HUH?"

"You might want to think about getting a singlet."

"Thanks, Dad!" she snapped, and twirled around and walked off. "Want me to look like a hippo!" she muttered to herself, in case anyone had been watching and thinking, _Um, right, how do those two know each other then?_ "Happy hippos huddle beneath huge umbrellas in Havana, drinking heavenly hibiscus tea with ham steak and pineapple." She moaned. Damn it, now she wanted ham steak! Why did she even _think_? Having a stomach really sucked.

Returning with her shopping basket, she said brightly, "We're having lunch soon, right? Cos I want ham steak! And no going stingy and holding the pineapple!"

"What brought this on?" Jarod asked, and got a funny look. Weird, he was asking her something. Good, but weird.

"Does anyone _need_ a reason to think about ham steak?"

"We're done, then?" Lyle asked.

She shook her head. "Nup! Not by a long shot, baby! I need reading material!"

"No."

"Yes!"

"No."

"_Yes!_"

"Fine."

She smiled, and skipped off. "Coming with?" she asked, glancing back at them cheerfully.

.

Decked out in her new clothes, Sunshine stared out the car window, very quickly having bored of the novel she'd picked up at the store, and blew on the window to make a little patch of mist to write in, but nothing happened. Heater. She sighed, then turned and stared at Lyle. He was still looking way too pale. She reached over and held onto his hand. "You should eat more."

"I wasn't hungry."

"Doesn't matter. You need energy to recover."

He made a face.

"Is true."

"If you're sick and you're not hungry, then you shouldn't eat until you are."

"That's only if you're sick with a bug," she replied.

"Really?"

"Shut up."

He sighed. "Whatever. When it's time for lunch, you can order for me. Happy?"

"No."

"Well get happy."

"I could do that. I could do that… if I had K-" She cut herself off. Yeah, like she was going to say _that_, in front of Jarod – when he could _hear_ her!

Lyle sighed. "I'm sorry for dragging you into all this shit," he told her heavily.

"Shut up. You didn't drag me into it, I volunteered. Not like I had anything better to do with my life, at the time!" she said, and snorted.

"Yeah, but I'm still sorry."

"_Sorry_'s just a word."

"I know it is."

"And it can get overused!"

"Nope. No it can't. Misused, yes, but not overused. Do you think _love_ can get overused, too?"

She rolled her eyes. "Fine. You win. You got anything on Bobby yet?"

"No."

"Keep at it. As if I need to tell you!"

"You don't."

"Did anyway."

"As usual."

"You betcha!"

He smiled.

She looked away quickly, back to the window on her side. "Oh, shut up! I can't believe that works on some people."

"Neither can I," he mumbled.

She crossed her arms. "How'd you know what I said?" she asked, turning back to face him with sharp, narrowed eyes.

"The driver. Listening in to our conversation."

"Shut up."

"Did I say anything against him?"

"Well don't even think it!" she snapped.

"I won't, then."

"You better not!"

"I said I wouldn't."

She grabbed the book out of the pocket in front of her, on the back of the seat, and opened to the page she'd last read from. _Whatever._ She didn't know why she was being so bitchy, she just knew she had to shut her mouth now or else she'd end up saying something she'd really regret. She couldn't let herself get worked up over nothing, just because she felt like it, just because she wanted to stand for something! Because she wanted to remind herself she was alive, she had _real_ feelings, too. She almost laughed. Yeah, alive. And what a joy that was proving to be, huh?

"You can smile about it, stalker up the front, but I'm not on your side, either," she said, loudly enough that Jarod could hear her and glared down at her book, feeling a headache coming on. She'd forgotten how shitty headaches could be. There was a world of fun right there, remembering all the painful shit you went through when you were alive!

.

Dropping them off at the trailer park, Jarod sighed and said, "Well, have fun, you and the clone."

"She's not a clone," Lyle told him, in a brittle tone of voice, "she's my daughter."

"You let your daughter get around town _naked_?" He had trouble believing _that_.

"_No_, I don't _let_ her! It was a _stupid_ dare!"

The girl rolled her eyes. "Shut up. Shut up. Shut up. Sheesh, Dad! What, like, it's illegal to have _friends_, now?"

"It's illegal to have _stupid_ friends, yes."

"My friends are not stupid, Dad! Immature, maybe, but they're not stupid! And neither am _I_!"

"Oh, I see. So that's why they persuaded you to toss out all your clothes and parade around the neighbourhood in your altogether in the middle of the blasted night! Is it! Because you're not a bunch of bloody fools, the _lot_ of you!"

"I didn't _toss_ them anywhere – I donated them!" she snapped back angrily. "To _charity_! You self-centred, self-involved _ignoramus_!"

"You know what, Little Miss Perfect, the next time you decide to do something stupid and your friends chicken out on you – I won't be coming to get you! You can jolly well _walk_ home! In the freezing cold, if you please!"

She scowled. "You're the one who can't control yourself, freak!"

"I beg your pardon?"

"You heard me, jerk."

"Don't you talk to me like that, young woman."

"You don't like it, then don't hand it out!"

"Get lost!"

"What?" She glared at him.

"Take a walk."

"You take a walk," she snapped at him.

He glared right back at her. No way was he talking a walk. She damn well was!

Making a face, she grabbed her shopping bags off the ground and stormed off. "Fucking asshole!"

Jarod shook his head. Sure, maybe she _was_ his daughter; he still didn't buy the not-a-clone thing. She was a clone for sure.

"What an idiot!" Lyle scowled, more to the ground than the girl.

"Just out of interest's sake, does the 'idiot' have a name?" Jarod asked, stepping away from the side of the car where he'd been leaning casually, observing their little argument.

Lyle laughed. "How should I know, genius?" he snapped. "Last week it was Puff, the week before that Tamper, and the week before that week, Tattoo. I ask you! Tattoo! Her _real_ name, it's Frances, but she can't stand it! Typical! Just… don't ask stupid questions, okay. I'm not in the mood!" Stamping down a scowl, he shook his head. "Thanks for all the help," he muttered stiffly, "but we're fine now. So you can… fuck off to wherever it is you came from, and we'll just pretend we never met you. Okay." He shook his head again, and walked off.

"No problem," Jarod replied. "Any day." Under his breath, he added, "Fuckin' asshole!" Frances was not wrong there, that was for sure.

Whenever the girl had been cloned, she'd obviously been going it alone until Lyle had shown up and crashed the party, or perhaps she'd been turfed out of the party for "immature" conduct, he thought. It didn't matter, really. Lyle was still being unfair on her, considering all the crazy shit he'd pulled in his life. But maybe he hadn't told the girl about that. Likely, he'd made up a bunch of fucking lies so she'd think Daddy was a goody-two-shoe from way back. It was bloody disgusting, but that was Lyle. The girl seemed to know one thing, at least: that Lyle was unreliable. She also knew that he was an Empath. That had to be a start. Whether he'd told her willingly or not, was another matter. And he'd told her about him, of course.

Once Jarod had left, Tazu dashed back over, sighing. "Let's just hope he bought it, huh?" she said, sighing again. "So, where are we off to? Any clues?"

"Nope."

"Get crackin', eh."

He held out his hands for her bags but she just made a face and headed off toward the trailer they'd rented. No way was she letting a sick person carry her stuff, excuse you very much!

Lyle walked after her silently. She was going to have fun driving later, he was sure of it. Yep, real sure. "You've driven before, haven't you?" he asked, and she turned back around to answer, walking backwards for a bit so he'd be able to catch what she said.

"Yes, siree, I have! So I'm gonna be driving? Awesome digs, baby! Can't wait!" She made a little whiny sound. "Curse you, ham steak! Curse you to the depths of Hell!"

"Random," Lyle replied.

"Do you think it's possible to be haunted by food?" she asked, with a frown.

"Depends, I guess, on what it is," he replied.

"By ham steak?"

"No, I don't think so. Not by ham steak. By the memory of it, perhaps."

"Yo, I'm Japanese! Like, we don't eat _ham steak_!"

"Really?"

She shrugged. "I dunno. My parents didn't let us eat it. I never tried it. It just sounds… nice. Man I love bacon!"

"So we've seen."

"I know! We are so having ham steak for lunch! And you're eating something, too, even if it's not ham steak."

"Did I say I wasn't?"

"Zip it."

"What did I say?"

"It's what you didn't say," she replied, with narrowed eyes. "Are you thinking about that girl again? The cute redheaded one?"

"What?"

"Emily?"

"No." He shook his head. "No. I was thinking about what you just said, lunch. Other than that, I was thinking about how to go about tracking down Bobby."

"And why can't he just… zap back to the mother ship? Rejoin the old collective?"

Lyle grimaced, tilting his head to the side. "I'd say it's because he's not feeling too well."

"Sucky."

"No shit."

She frowned at him. "Dude, you're starting to sound like your sister."

"No I'm not."

"Yeah you are."

"Whatever."

She pointed, her black eyes going wide. "My point exactly!"

He reached out and grabbed her arm, stopping her.

She looked behind her at the garbage can she'd nearly toppled over backwards, shrugged, and stepped around it, headed over to their trailer. It was bloody _freezing_ for summer! She just wanted to be back indoors, preferably where there was a heater. She wasn't half as keen on this driving thing as she'd made out, to be perfectly honest, but there was nobody else they could ask to drive them, was there? They definitely couldn't ask _Jarod_.

She stopped at the door and waited for Lyle to find his keys, stamping her shoes on the ground to get some circulation back into her feet. "By the way, thanks for buying me all this… stuff."

He sighed. "I wasn't expecting you to get around with nothing on, if that was what you were thinking."

"Nope."

He nodded. Well, exactly.

"Jarod didn't… look through your shit, did he?"

"I'd imagine so."

"Then he saw the… the serum?"

"I'd imagine so."

"What do you think he'd have made of it?"

"Look, I couldn't say right now. I just hope he didn't make anything too serious of it, okay."

She shrugged. "He probably just thought it was what it said on the label it was. Insulin, or whatever."

"Let's hope so."

"What else could he have thought it was?"

Lyle gave her a tight smile. "Biological weaponry, at all?"

She scoffed, scuffing the toe of her shoe on the dead grass. "Yeah, right. You and whose army?"

"I'm afraid that's not how Jarod sees it, darling."

She made a face. "Yeah, well, he's a nice enough guy, but he's kinda… kinda one mindset."

"Aren't we all, Tazu? Aren't we all?"

"I guess so," she muttered, breathing into her hands to see if her breath misted up. It didn't. She sighed, and stepped inside the door Lyle had just opened. Hopefully, it would soon be lunch. She was damned hungry already, and she'd forgotten to have a hunt around for a half-decent water-resistant watch.

"What do you think Bobby was doing, anyway?" she asked, taking a seat at the table and sitting her bags on the seat next to her.

"Rescuing injured wildlife? Who knows?"

She laughed. "I can totally picture that!"

In complete seriousness, Lyle replied, "So can I."

Which was exactly the problem, Tazu thought. So could he. He'd always said Bobby had always wanted a dog. Preferably, a Toto dog, but any dog would have been fine, in honesty. He'd obviously been sucked in by the whole "man's best friend" thing, she thought. Poor kid. Then again, she wanted a dog too; just thinking about dogs made her want one all the more. You'd be able to hug it and feed it and it would sleep on the end of your bed, no complaints. It'd be great! Until some idiot ran it over with their car and you had to take it to the vet to be put down, or you had to watch it die knowing you couldn't hold its hand and tell it it was all going to be okay because, frankly, even if you did, it probably would be in too much pain – though it couldn't have told you where – to even register what you'd said. People always wanted shit, right up until it went sideways, then they didn't even want to know about it anymore. She was a person, and it made her feel like a dolt and a user, just knowing that other people acted like that, but that was exactly why she'd never have a pet, and exactly why it hurt so much, knowing it: because she would have damn well loved that pet like it was her own Goddamn child! Then again, not everybody loved their children, either, did they?

A cruel, mixed-up world it was, for the humans, she thought, _and you're one of them, baby! You're one of them!_

"I hope he's okay, the dill. He is, isn't he?"

"I don't know. I know it sounds pathetic, but I honestly don't know. He's obviously been at this for a lot longer than a mere few weeks, but he's been Blocking me, so that I wouldn't find out, and, up until now, I hadn't."

Tazu sighed. "But you said he's probably at some hospital for sure, yeah?"

"I don't know. I hope so."

Tazu crossed her fingers, and held them up for him to see, hovering over the tabletop. Yeah, she damn well hoped so, too. The kid was practically family, after all, wasn't he? What other family did she have, now? None. The answer was _bloody none_. She wasn't cut up about it, mind, just… mindful. It just made her think, _I'm alive. Really alive again. What am I going to do now? I can… I can do anything, can't I?_ So what did she do? Did she ditch her friends and go off chasing after some elusive butterfly dream, or did she stick with those that had stuck with her and see where it took her?

She didn't know. She just didn't know. For the time being, though, she knew she'd be sticking around. For the time being, yeah, Lyle was stuck with her. For the time being, she'd totally be honing her _Transporter_ skills. Jason Stratham meets those bad _chicas_ from _Taxi_, to the max! Yeah, she wouldn't miss that for the world! And she wouldn't ditch her best friend for anything. She'd already lost one; she wasn't doing it again.

.

At first, she didn't know what had woken her. She wasn't cold and she wasn't hot, she was just... just how she always felt, she supposed, as she opened her eyes to the morning light. But why was she in the van? Why had she been sleeping in the van? It was then that she realised... she wasn't just how she always was... she was warm, the sunlight on her face was warm... and she was wearing Zaiid's coat.

The events of the previous night came back to her in a rush, and she looked around her quickly to see if her friend was with her. He was, but he looked pale, his complexion more like his sister's than his own. That worried her. He'd coughed up a lot of blood, she remembered; some kind of negative feedback. But what was she doing wearing his coat... and nothing else? And why were her feet cold, suddenly?

Glancing down at her feet, she noticed that she'd stretched her legs out in the foot well and that her feet were now sticking out of the blanket. Just what was going on?

_Okay_, she told herself rationally, _take it easy. Just think this thing through again; what happened first? We'd gotten to the stage with the serum where we were ready to start testing, we'd found a supplier and got the money together to buy a shiny, new set of upgrades. We were walking back to the van, then something happened. Some kind of reaction..._

She glanced across to her friend, tucking her legs up onto the chair beside her, and noticed how awful he looked, how the old skin seemed to have been partially shed and replaced by new skin, underneath.

She felt suddenly like vomiting. Nothing like this had ever happened when he'd turned Reaper, and it wasn't as though the scars had gone. Sure, though she hadn't exactly believed it, he'd told her that the change could help with some things - like regrowing missing fingers - but, apparently, it didn't heal scars.

"Good morning."

She'd wandered off into her thoughts and, at the sound of Lyle's voice, was snapped back to the present, to the van.

"There's something wrong with me," she reported immediately. "I'm cold, and I feel sick, and... And it's not just that." She did her best not to sound panicked, but it was distressing her greatly.

"On the contrary, darlin', I think you'll find you're quite fine."

She frowned. No, that couldn't be right!

"You're alive, that's all." He grimaced. Something hurt.

"That's all," she murmured, as though dazed, then remembered that, no matter, she was 'quite fine', and her friend didn't look so fine. "What's wrong? Wh-why were you...?"

"Internal bleeding," he replied. "I think it's settled down, for now. I may... I may need a couple of stitches, later, when I..." He fell short, trying to calm his breathing down. His eyes looked watery.

She flinched, remembering the funny cracking sounds of last night. "If it's your back, I might be able to... push it back in."

"It's fine," he said, though he was looking even paler than before.

"No, it's not fine," she told him. "It should be put back in. You can hear me now?"

"No."

She frowned, annoyed. Well, what was the use of that, then? _A bloody load of bullshit!_ she thought darkly. The change might well have restored his hearing, but, no!, it seemed as though it just hadn't wanted to do anything useful.

He opened the van door and managed to get out before he threw up. The cold wind that came in from the open door made her shiver. Some of it had splashed onto his hand, and she could see bits of blood and other stuff amongst the rest of it. She distinctly felt like puking. "What is that?"

"I think... it's... partly intestine, partly... stomach."

She put a hand over her mouth.

"Don't worry, it's not one of your sisters."

She grabbed up the blanket and shuffled over on the chair, slipping out on the van and landing with her tiny feet on the cold, cold gravel. Crap, that stung! "Not even funny!" she muttered darkly, but he was throwing up again, so he probably didn't hear her, and that was probably the point. _Definitely something out_, she thought, shivering and glancing around the car park to make sure they weren't being watched. "How's your head?" she asked, for something to say, before she remembered: Oh, yeah, deaf.

Good thing they'd parked so close to a bin, she thought, shuffling over and putting a hand on his back. When she took it away, something dark and sticky came off on her hand. She stared at it and quickly wiped it on the blanket. Oh...! Disgust and horror intertwined with terror, in her dark eyes. What, exactly, was so scary about blood escaped her, it was just... scary. It was scary when it was her friend's blood. _Fucking dim-witted idiot!_ She suddenly felt like finding the Mysterious Healer – who'd obviously been the one who'd resurrected her from the dead – and slapping him (or her) over the kisser. She wasn't the one who'd needed fixing. It was her friend!

She turned back to the van, quickly, and climbed back inside, searching for a tissue. Damn! His nose was bleeding again. When she got back out, she saw that he'd collapsed and was lying on the ground. Crap! Was it his upgrades acting up? She remembered that he'd said something about how the two upgrades could end up interacting badly, when he got his new set, and that the serum wouldn't work on his older upgrades, if it worked at all. His upgrades were old, and seemed to be degrading. As if the change hadn't been bad enough, along with whatever it was he'd inadvertently Empathed on the street, this just made things a hundred times worse.

She refrained from cussing or screaming or bawling of any of those things, and got down to check if Lyle was still breathing, if he still had a pulse. Brain trauma could do funny things to a person, could disrupt all kinds of things that normally just... worked.

She was brand new, and he was falling to bits. It didn't seem very fair, to her, but what could you do about it?

When he got better, they'd find a place in the country, away from all of those farms, though, and he'd be able to get well again. And then... And then they could think about the rest of it, she thought, pulling the blanket tighter about herself to ward off the cold. The weather really was acting out of character, this year; there was no arguing with that.

She sat down on the ground and waited for Lyle to come 'round. How were they with the plan? What would their next move be? All of these questions (and more) niggled in the corners of her mind, demanding answers. After so many, many years, she couldn't wait for this thing to be over; to finally be _over_!

A cool breeze blew up, reminding her that she was alive, strangely alive. Life, in this form, in this human body, wasn't something she'd asked for. She hadn't wanted it. She'd accepted her life as it was, as it had been, as a spirit, still somehow tied to its former "life" as a human, as Tazu Iakawa. She hadn't wanted to be alive again.

She closed her eyes and thought about things, for a long moment. She'd wanted to help her friend do this one thing, then... then she'd been looking forward to moving on. Now, she would have years to wait! Years! Years to chance getting caught up, investing herself in her new life. But that would be the nicest thing that could happen, she thought. The nicest thing that could happen would be to feel alive, once more. To live again.

A familiar, sharp cracking snapped her from her troubled thoughts and she snapped her eyes open, realising that Lyle was changing, becoming Zaiid once more. Her heart leapt, horror descending like a suffocating blanket. He couldn't just change out here in the open, could he? For goodness sakes, he wasn't even conscious! Was that even possible?

She darted a hurried, frightened glance back to the van. If he didn't wake up _now_ she'd have to get him to the van somehow, get him inside somehow. She didn't think she could do that.

She leapt to her feet and shuffled forward, falling to her knees to shake him awake. He had to wake up! Shaking him roughly, she wondered what he was dreaming about. He'd been having some strange dreams lately, though he always maintained he couldn't remember what they'd been about when he finally woke. She hoped he wouldn't be too angry about her waking him up to this horror show.

He had to get out of the open. Now!

.

She sat up front, inside the van, wanting desperately to squeeze her eyes shut tight, but too deathly afraid for the images that would be waiting for her in the dark. The sounds coming from the back of the van truly frightened her, like someone was being bloody murdered.

Staring intently at a chip in the grubby windshield, she couldn't remember the last time she'd dreamt, the last time she'd remembered a dream. She wished she could close her eyes right now and dream herself away to another place, a place where such horrors just didn't exist. She wished Kyle or Thomas could have been there, holding her hand. At that point, she wouldn't even have minded if it had been Jimmy, but she was cut off from that world now. Now, she was stuck here, in the world of the living. Stuck here, listening to this nightmare, with no way of escape... because she could never just get up and walk away, silently thinking, _It's my life, baby! I'll do my own thing, you do yours! Sayonara, hon!_

She could never do that.

_Why me?_ she whispered wordlessly as tears prickled her eyes. _Why did you chose me?_ Why couldn't the Mysterious Healer have chosen someone else? Someone who actually _wanted_ to live!

When the horrible sounds of the change had passed, when five, ten minutes had gone by in silence, she brushed the half-shed tears from her eyes and reached for the door with a shaking hand. They would have to move on, just as soon as Zaiid was able. They had an appointment to make.

.

She silently replayed _Grenade_ by Bruno Mars over in her mind, as they drove. She'd heard it on the radio once, a while ago, and decided she liked it. It was something to distract her from Zaiid's shaking hands. Really, he shouldn't have been driving. He was much to unwell. But with an appointment to get to, there was nothing else for it.

Inside the van, the sun felt hot and flustering on her cheeks. "How did I get to the van?" she asked, resisting the urge to wind down her side window. Watching the road with watery brown eyes, Zaiid was shivering. She didn't know if it was a good idea starting up a conversation, but she suddenly needed to know.

"Aliens," Zaiid told her casually. He didn't look at her but he smiled.

She was glad to see that he wasn't too sick to smile, but she didn't buy his 'aliens' story. Obviously, he'd carried her. She felt bad. He was really sick, he shouldn't have had to worry about her, too; to carry her, too. "You should have woken me," she said. "Next time, just wake me."

Zaiid frowned, shaking his head to himself, more than to her. What he meant to say was, 'I couldn't wake you; the process was hard on you;' what he really said was, "It did you good."

Frowning herself, her gaze latching onto that chip in the windshield, she asked, "Did you have another dream?"

"I would imagine that I did," he replied. Then, taking his eyes briefly from the road, he reached over to switch on the radio. Tazu didn't know the song that was playing.

"Why me?" she asked, her tone casting aside all pretence. She was pissed and she'd be happy to share the news with anyone who cared to prick up an ear.

"Why not you, Tazu?"

She laughed, looking away from the windscreen to the side window. "I didn't ask for! I didn't _want_ it! This – _life_!"

"Needless to say, it's yours now," Zaiid returned. "What are you going to do? Live with it, accept and respect, or throw it away on a bad mood?"

"What would you do?" she growled at the window she was staring fiercely into.

"Live," he replied truthfully.

She laughed darkly. "This is a change of tune, Zaiid!" she quipped sarcastically. The moment she'd said it, she realised that it had probably been the wrong thing to say, but she couldn't take it back then, no matter how much she might've wanted to. It was the truth, in any case. Lyle was always saying how everyone would have been better off if he'd never been born, or, at least, if not saying so, thinking so. There was no way in Hell he could deny that. From all accounts, Catherine had been the same way, too. By rights, Lyle should have known better. As a Class Five Empath, he should have absolutely known better. But apparently hating himself had been a comfort for him.

"I don't hate myself!" she scowled. "I'm not sorry to be alive – but, damn it, I had _plans_!"

"We all have plans, love," he replied quietly. And wasn't that the truth! Wasn't that the biggest joke of all! Oh yes, they all had plans. Even Catherine had had a plan, after all.

Crystal Gayle came on over the radio singing _For the Good Times_. Zaiid sung along absently, as though it was no trouble at all, just something that one did. Tazu went right on glaring at the window. She was still mad at him, she wasn't giving up that easily.

Whipping around in her seat, she glared at him angrily. "And why is it up to _you_ to make this serum? Why do you have to risk your life for a bunch of strangers?"

He smiled at the windscreen. "For one thing, darlin', I know somethin' about upgrades, about applied biotech. For another, those strangers are, nevertheless, my family, my brothers and sisters. They're my species. I live in this society and my actions have consequences. Some of them won't have negative consequences for others, some of them will have. I won't be able to remedy all of those I've got wrong, to negate the effects of them all, but I can contribute in a positive way. If I can, why not?"

She scowled, her face dark. He still wouldn't look at her. "Because you could _die_, that's why, you idiot!" she growled.

He glanced at her now, smiling. "What's life if you don't live a little, hon? If you never take a chance? I could, I could be the sort of person who never steps outside their comfort zone, who lives their life in permanent humdrum mode, but I'd really rather not. I'd really rather take a chance, have a little faith in my people and myself and imagine that, if I really want it enough, I can be great. I can _live_! Be what I want to be."

"Even if the rest of the world only ever hates you?" she growled.

"Even if."

He didn't add to that and Tazu was glad for that, at least. If he'd added that the rest of the world would be more than justified in hating him, she'd have walloped him one for sure. She was bloody glad he hadn't... because it probably wouldn't have done him any good getting whacked over the head, and it wouldn't have done her any good. She'd have felt like a bloody mean person.

This was her second chance, she reminded herself. This time, she wanted to get it right. "I still don't think it's all up to you," she told him, losing the animosity, this time. She'd given up on being angry at him; it didn't really achieve anything.

"And nobody's saying that it should be, love. But don't you see, I have an opportunity here, and I can take it or leave it – my choice – and I really want to take it."

"Why?"

"I've done so many things I just can't look back on say, 'No, I was right in doing as I did.' A chance to change my tune comes along and I'm going to take it! It's not about balancing the scales, it's about proving to myself that change is possible, if I really want it. I understand that you're upset, that you see what I'm doing as selfish, an unnecessary risk, on my behalf, but believe me when I say – I am _happy_! I am happy to do this. No matter the outcome for me, I won't regret the chance the do something good."

"That isn't what you're like!"

"It really is. Underneath, it is. I've been so unhappy, lying to myself all these years, and lying to those around me. All I want to do now is to be myself, who I really am underneath. I never really looked that hard, I always just make-believed the person I was was the person I was meant to be, that I was at my most successful, my most effective, as I was. But that wasn't me; that was me, lying to myself. When I looked at the world, I didn't see things as I should. I judged myself against these things that were all wrong. But you see, as human beings, we're all equal. I am no less or more a person than anyone else. I've been thinking competition: you can't win if you don't fight. But you know what, that's silly. So silly. You can co-operate. You can learn together, grow together. You can work together and embrace life, you can learn to love yourself and your brothers and sisters. And then you can do anything. Absolutely anything."

Tazu made the peace sign with her fingers and muttered, "Flower power, baby!" Zaiid mightn't have thought so, but, to her ears, he sounded as though he'd popped some pills. Co-operation _was_ a nice idea, but, on the whole, it was more idea, more thought of than put into practise. Then again, Lyle hadn't exactly ever lived in the real world. He'd always lived in his own world, to some degree or other. Possibly, it was one of his coping mechanisms.

"You gotta believe in them, Tazu. You gotta! They're not all bad. In case they need you, you gotta be there, ready. No," he nodded, "you're right. Today, I'm not sorry to be one of them. To be one of the humans. I think I love them today. They're a funny lot. Give them some time, let's see what they make of things. Will they choose love or lust?"

Harmony, tolerance and acceptance as opposed to power, money and greed, Tazu thought. Wasn't it obvious which the majority would chose?

"I believe in them," Zaiid said.

That doesn't mean they believe in themselves, for all the right reasons, all the good reasons, Tazu thought. Hearts break, greed never dies; money burns, it can't keep you warm at night, but it won't ever tell you it's over, it won't ever ask for a divorce, or leave you standing alone in the dark. Acceptance and tolerance might make you all warm and fuzzy inside, but it might just make your neighbour hate you more; power means that no matter how much people hate you, you can still tell them what to do, you still get the last laugh. How many people mistook lust for love; how many couldn't tell the difference, or say 'no' even when they'd found the one they claimed to love? In truth, which was the more powerful: love or lust?

"Zaiid, you've got to wake up," she told him.

"Oh, I have, baby! I have!"

_It's his diabetes_, she told herself. _He's going to pass out if we don't stop soon and catch some grub._ The next roadhouse they came to, she decided, she'd ask if they could stop. They still had time to eat, didn't they?

_When did you get so dejected?_ she asked herself silently. The answer came easily: _I lived._

As she was mulling over this unhappily, an even more frightening prospect struck her: what if it was a mid-life crisis?

.

It was cold on the pavement, when he woke. Of course, it had been another dream. They were happening more and more, now. Sometimes, he wasn't sure what was real and what was fantasy. That said something to him: his time was coming to an end, his mind was frantically scrabbling to tie up the loose ends, to gain as much closure as possible. Or something like that.

Opening his eyes in the weak morning light, he saw that Tazu had fallen asleep, sitting on the footpath, back to a factory wall. She'd stayed, of course. She was a good friend. In his own way, he loved her very much. It was sad, how things had ended for her... And he still had his promise to contend with. He'd promised her to find the person who was doing this, killing these girls, and yet, he was no closer than before to finding that person, to stopping the killings. He couldn't understand that, how his Empathy just refused to co-operate with him in this instance. He had no clue. When Jarod had taken an interest in the girls' cases, he'd honestly held hope that it might end, that Jarod might find the person and make all of it stop, but that just hadn't happened.

He let the pain have free reign, but otherwise put it from his mind. It was obvious he'd been able to fight the change, in the end, he'd been able to remain as Zaiid. If he could just remember the dreams, he thought, they could offer him some clue as to how to go about things in a more productive manner, but he never remembered them.

Standing unsteadily, he made it to the factory wall and sat down beside Tazu. She didn't wake up, not properly, but she snuggled closer and rested her head on his shoulder. _I'm sorry_, he thought. _I'm sorry I couldn't be what you needed me to be, what I wanted me to be. I've disappointed them all, haven't I? And, most of all, I've disappointed myself. I so wanted to be a part of your world, of their world, to be a good part of it, but what have I accomplished? I mess things up. I always mess things up._

He hummed Christina Perri's _Arms_ quietly, pretending he didn't notice the cold, or how he shivered so. The world wasn't a bad place: it was the people who decided what they made of it by their actions. _We can still change. We can still change for the better. There has to be time._

A tear ran down his cheek but he brushed it away. There was no use for tears anymore, not for him. Thinking about things, he realised he'd never even fallen in love before. Not really. And how funny was that? How silly was that? Bobby had always wanted to fall in love, but somehow, in the scheme of things, that dream had died along with the rest of it.

_Oh, Bobby, I'm sorry. I'm sorry, my darling. We'd had such dreams, hadn't we, my love? And all of our dreams, they shattered on the ground. They never learnt to fly. Darling, do better next time. Please, please do better next time. I believe in you; I always have. I might not have told you, but I always did. The truth is: I've be so, so silly. I thought I was the grown-up one, but it was never true._


End file.
